Alabaster
by Onions
Summary: Matt and Jeff Hardy run into trouble when a vicious enemy from their past returns. What is the black box? How does Jericho fit into her schemes? And what the hell is the Stank-oto? OC,Edge,HBK,Vince,HHH,Regal,Kennedy
1. Chapter 1

**Alabaster- CHAPTER 1**

Summer had fallen upon the Carolinian swamplands like a damp rag.

"More tea, Judge?", asked Anabella. Her withered hands shakily moved towards the teapot to pour more of the fragrant beverage for her guest.

The immense grandfather clock chimed the hour, sounding hollowly throughout the empty house. Five o'clock. Anabella turned her gaze to the huge window that overlooked the vast expanse of swamps. The sun was beginning to go down, burning red fire through the treetops. The old woman absently fanned herself, lost in her thoughts.

"Anabella", prompted the Judge softly, his deep voice breaking through her musings, "you said you had something to show me."

She blinked, and looked at him, her face hard. He gazed back, expressionless.

A staid and practical man in his late fifties, the Judge was, as usual, dressed in black from head to foot. He was always respectful, even deferential, when in Anabella's presence, though there was, somehow, an air of danger that seemed to lurk beneath his benign demeanor. Anabella respected this.

"Here", she said, proffering two bent, worn photographs.

He glanced down at them. Each pictured a young boy, smiling and laughing. These appeared to be typical children, engaging in typical childhood activities. He looked back to Anabella, waiting for further explanation.

"These are my grandsons, Matthew and Jeffrey", she said slowly, softly touching the photographs still being held in the Judge's hands.

The Judge's eyes widened, and he leaned forward slightly. "I see."

Anabella stared at the photographs, her back straight, her face tight, her eyes dark. "They left this place long ago, you know. They left to live in sin, and every day they disgrace me and this family. I tried to show them the way. I tried."

"I know you tried, Anabella", soothed the Judge, "But boys will not listen to the likes of us."

Her piercing eyes found the Judge's impenetrable gaze.

"Why are you showing me this, Anabella?", asked the Judge, carefully handing the photographs back to the old woman.

She took them with care, holding them as if they were prized possessions.

"Because", she replied, her voice warmer than it had been moments before, "my wayward grandsons will be returning home very, very soon. And I will need you to be my sword and my shield upon the road to their redemption."

The sun sank below the horizon, and darkness moved in swiftly, and fiercely.

* * * * * * *

He moved slowly, languidly, but with a definite purpose. It was dark, pitch black. There was something he needed to get away from, and he could hear it just behind him, moving with heavy, deliberate footsteps through the underbrush. He tried to move faster, or at least get a sense of where he was. He could hear the crunch of small sticks under his shoes, the pound of blood in his ears, the hitch of his panicked breath. There was water rushing somewhere up ahead. Hearing his pursuers closing in, he moved towards that, his slow pace maddening.

When he reached the river, which was far too wide to cross without aid, he saw a large shadow sitting on the bank. Sure it must be a boat, he loped down to the water's edge to push it into the current. He could hear that they had cleared the trees, and were making their way down to him. They weren't even hurrying.

He, however, had frozen. He was staring in horror at the dark thing lying on the river's edge. A hand fell heavily onto his shoulder, another onto his arm. Feeling them drag him towards the shadowy mass, his shoulders slumped in defeat, and he gave up hope.

Knocking. Knocking. The hands, the darkness, the river, the- thing, all gone.

Matt Hardy shot up, his eyes wide, his chest heaving in remembered exertion.

He shook his head in disbelief as he realized it had been a very vivid dream. What had that thing been on the riverbank? His brows furrowed in concentration as he struggled to recall it. It seemed familiar, somehow.

There was a loud knocking at his door then, causing Matt to nearly fall out of his bed in fright. Shaking his head in annoyance, he realized he'd been hanging around Jeff far too much lately if he was pondering the meaning of his dreams.

After running his hand back through his dark curly locks, he jumped out of bed and answered the door. As he expected, his younger brother Jeff had been the insistent knocker. The younger Hardy brother leaned against the doorway bonelessly, his dyed hair tied back into a neat ponytail, his eyebrows drawn into a tight arch over his dark green eyes. He shouldered his way past Matt into the hotel room.

"What the hell, man?", Jeff said, his voice taut, "You were supposed to be up hours ago. Are you sick or something?"

Matt raised an eyebrow, turning to shut the door. "Jesus, Jeff, you're in a mood."

Jeff glared. "I am not in a god damned mood! I was just up late last night. I'm tired."

"What were you doing last night?", asked Matt incredulously.

Jeff smiled. "You don't wanna know, man."

Matt shook his head and chuckled. He began moving slowly towards the bathroom, stretching sore and tense muscles.

"So, are you gonna stay here all day, or are we going?", Jeff asked impatiently.

"Ok, ok. I'm coming!," Matt said apologetically as he picked a wedge. "Just give me a minute to throw some shit on and we can go grab a beer."

Jeff smiled and shifted to the opposite wall to wait for his brother. The thought of a cold beer in the morning before practice always perked him up. They would probably head over to The Crab Palace, as the bartender there had a habit of giving them free nachos with their lagers. He wondered if the bartender had a bit of a crush on…

"Alright, let's go!" Matt said with the excitement of a little boy going to his first monster truck rally. The older Hardy was dressed in his usual wife beater and camouflage skull pants, his hair greased back into a tight ponytail.

"It's about time, jackass," said Jeff sarcastically. "Let me dump first. I'll meet you in the lobby in about ten."

* * * * * * *

The Crab Palace was hopping. No one thought it at all strange that the bar was full at 10:00 AM. Well-known wrestlers were seated next to unknown truckers, who were in turn seated next to somewhat-known female regulars. The bar area was dimly lit and smelled of desperation. When Jeff and Matt walked in, the patrons barely seemed to notice, but somehow shouted, "Har-DEES!" in perfect unison. It was instinct, born of familiarity. Jeff and Matt took their customary bow and headed over to the bar.

"Two lagers, please," said Jeff, silently hoping his brother remembered to bring his wallet. Jeff had been strapped for cash since Tuesday, when, after a long night of partying with one of the female regulars, he woke to find his man-purse gone. He couldn't file a police report because of the illegal substances involved in the evening's activities, so he decided to just make due until Friday when his WWE paycheck came.

The bartender, a balding, heavyset man wearing a stained WWE t-shirt, smiled shyly at Jeff as he handed two foaming mugs over to him.

"Here you are, my man", he drawled. His eyes traveled down Jeff's body, slowly and purposefully. Jeff, oblivious to the scrutiny, took the beers and turned to study the room.

He saw that Matt had already taken a seat next to Shawn Michaels, who was leaning heavily into the worn wood of the bar. There were a bevy of empty glasses sitting in front of him. He picked up a half-drained glass, and raised it to his lips with shaking hands. Throwing his head back, the Heartbreak Kid drank the beer down in one huge gulp.

Jeff made his way over to Matt and Shawn, pushing his way through the drunken crowd.

"Mornin', Shawn", Jeff greeted Michaels with a nod. Shawn nodded back, then turned back to the bar, to order another lager.

Jeff sat down next to Matt, and handed one of the beers over to him.

"Uh, I forgot my wallet", Jeff murmured.

Matt, who had been about to partake of the Crab Palace's excellent lager, put his glass down on the bar. He glared at his brother.

"Again?", he asked, annoyed.

Jeff sighed. "Well, it's more like I, um, lost it." He tried to make light of the situation, and smiled mischievously. "Last night was a little out of control, man."

Matt rolled his eyes, and shook his head in disbelief. This was all he needed.

"Hey, buddy!", slurred Shawn, interrupting the brothers' exchange, "Can I get some damned service over here, or is this side of the bar closed?!" He leaned in, every muscle in his body clenched tightly in his anger.

The bartender was accustomed to being yelled at by irate drunks, and took his time making his way around to Shawn.

"Yeah?", he said, his tone bored.

"Gimme another beer", said Shawn.

The bartender was looking at Jeff, and smiling. The younger Hardy brother shifted uncomfortably under his eyes.

"Surely", said the bartender, breaking his intense study of Jeff, "And I'll bring some nachos over as well." He looked back over his object of interest once more, smiling like a Cheshire cat. "Free of charge, of course."

Shawn sighed contentedly, collapsing back onto his barstool. "I love nachos, man", he said dreamily.

Suddenly, sunlight streamed into the darkened barroom as the Crab Palace's front door swung open. The patrons squinted in pain when the morning light hit their eyes. Someone in the back yelled "Shut the god damn door, asshole!" A beer can was promptly flung at the offender, who, after dodging the alcohol-soaked missile, immediately turned to close the door.

Matt Hardy, who had been occupying himself playing a game of 9-ball with a ragged-looking chick named Gibbie, peered up from the stained green felt of the pool table to see who had come in. There, standing in front of the closed door, intently eyeing the dark room, was Ken Kennedy, a formidable face in a sea of drunken debauchery.

"Bee-yow!" Kennedy yelled with a voice that penetrated the thick, musty air like metal on metal. "I am here, bitches! Let the party begin!"

Jeff Hardy got up from the bar and skipped over to him. "Hey, bro! What up?" he asked as he high-fived the blonde, spiky-haired renegade.

"Man, I need a lager before practice. McMahon is pissing the shit out of me lately," complained Kennedy, taking a small step back to avoid Jeff's morning breath. "If he has his lackey writers put me in one more storyline with Umaga and that asshole, The Great Khali, I will seriously kill someone."

"Yeah, I know. Boss is out of control." Jeff said. "Come on, let's go grab a beer." He skipped back across the room to his place at the bar next to Shawn Michaels and motioned for Kennedy to follow.

Ken started to follow, but before he was able to take two steps, a fat bastard named Henry, a regular patron who liked to cause trouble with the wrestlers, blocked his path and put his hand in his face. "You SUCKED at Wrestlemania!" Henry yelled, his yellow teeth an inch from Kennedy's nose.

Matt, Jeff and even a visibly drunk Shawn Michaels, immediately moved into position behind Kennedy, ready to defend their colleague at any cost.

Henry under any other circumstance would be a fool to even try to stand up to four of the buffest WWE superstars of today, but he was running on a misleading combination of adrenaline and Crab Palace lager. In his mind, there was only one outcome and it consisted of four bloody wrestlers left writhing on the dirty barroom floor. He took a monstrous, clumsy swing at Kennedy.

Immediately, like a well-oiled machine, the other three superstars sprung into action, locking into a robot-like formation they called Stank-oto, a move known only to the most elite wrestlers in the world. In one graceful motion, Shawn Michaels wrapped his legs around Jeff Hardy's torso, leaving his body parallel to the ground. In unison, Jeff slung his arms onto Matt's shoulders as Matt simultaneously stuck his head through Shawn's legs, forming the lethal Stank-oto and in one final motion, Henry was gone, a pile of gray dust in his place. No one saw what happened. Whatever it was came and went too quickly.

Kennedy, who had taken great care to dodge Stank-oto's lethal path, now moved back in to help his friends right themselves, a great smirk on his handsome face.

"Thanks, guys", he said, while grabbing Shawn's waist to ease his passage to the ground, "But I've dealt with that fat fuck before. You didn't need to do that."

Matt rolled his shoulders back, stretching the muscles. "He had it coming", said the older Hardy softly, "I hated that guy. He's been starting shit with us since we first started coming here, and for no reason I can think of. Good fucking riddance."

Kennedy's smile widened as he looked down at the pile of gray ash on the filthy wooden floor. In one sweeping, graceful move, he pulled his leg back and kicked it into the smoky air. "Good riddance, fat fuck", he said, laughing.

"Hey man, that shit got into my beer!", came an angry protest from an anonymous patron at the bar. After seeing the deadly consequences of confronting this group, however, no one moved to throw any punches.

"Speaking of beer", said Kennedy, his eyes shining excitedly, "It sounds like just the thing to wash down the pancakes and grits I had not an hour ago."

Kennedy took the seat next to Shawn, which a vagrant had just vacated. He ordered a beer from the bartender, who made sure to walk past Jeff and give him a good eyeing again. The younger Hardy rolled his eyes, and munched on the gifted stale nachos and congealed cheese that had been brought over earlier.

The front door swung open then, with such force that it slammed against the wall and bounced back. An imposing figure stood there, backlit by the blinding sunlight, his shoulders thrown back, his head held high.

"Close the door, asshole!" A beer can was thrown from the dark recesses of the shadowy bar, exploding onto the wall in an extraordinary display of amber liquid and foam.

"Waste of beer", muttered Shawn Michaels mournfully.

"Dammit!", cried the man who had just come in, a strong English accent marking his words, "This place is disgusting!" He turned around and slammed the door shut, and all inside breathed a palpable sigh of relief.

When the bright spots had stopped dancing in their vision, the wrestlers saw that the irate man standing in the doorway was none other than William Regal, the general manager of RAW. He appeared to be seething in unchecked anger.

"Oh shit, man", whispered Jeff, ducking down lower so the daunting Englishman wouldn't see him, "Remember the last time he caught us in here before practice? He said he would cut off our balls and wear them on a necklace if we ever did it again."

Kennedy shook his head, and smiled. "He only said that about the drunk guys. And, unless Monsieur Regal intends to utilize breathalyzer tests on us this morning, I'd pretty much say we're made in the shade." Jeff looked back at Kennedy, incredulity written all over his chiseled features. Rolling his eyes, Ken said, "Just eat your nachos."

Matt interrupted their exchange then, pointing with wide eyes to a dark alcove across the bar. They had to squint to see what exactly was going on, but when their eyes adjusted, Kennedy and Jeff were just as horrified as the older Hardy brother.

William Regal had been slowly stalking around the crowded barroom, intently searching each face. He'd found, in one dark corner, Triple H, Umaga, and Finley, all surrounded by empty glasses and beer cans, and all passed out drunk. The Hardys and Kennedy watched in horror as Regal moved in slowly, a grimace on his bulldog face. He was holding… something. A long stick.

"What the hell is that?", whispered Jeff, his eyes wide.

The three wrestlers, passed out from copious amounts of alcohol, didn't move.

Regal touched the stick to Umaga's side. The reaction was both instantaneous, and explosive. The giant man screamed something in his native Samoan tongue, jumping up and away from the general manager. His eyes were wide, and his breaths came fast and hard.

If he'd been drunk, Umaga was stone sober now.

Moving in close to the huge man, Regal said coldly, "Get back to the gym. If I ever find you in this state again, I will recommend to McMahon that you be dismissed from the company."

Without a word, the tattooed giant left, rubbing his side all the way.

"A fucking cattle prod!", whispered Matt, who was watching the scene in utter disbelief.

"Uh, boys, I think we should get the hell out of here", suggested Kennedy, who was trying to wake Shawn up, "You wanna help me before His Highness makes his way over to this side of the bar?"

Moving quickly, Jeff, Matt, and Kennedy all worked to haul the nearly unconscious Shawn Michaels off of the bar stool.

The Heartbreak Kid was not an easy lump to simply carry off into the wild blue yonder. His physique was obviously a hindrance to the escape effort. If only he would snap out of his stupor for a moment, giving them the few precious seconds they needed to dodge the wrath of the nasty Brit.

"Shawn, you fucking oaf!" whispered Kennedy into his ear. "Get off your ass and MOVE before Retard Regal sees us!"

HBK stirred a bit, but still could not support his own weight. Kennedy tugged at Shawn's cut-out bib-style shirt to try and get a response, but only succeeded in ripping the shirt further, fully exposing the drunken wrestler's beer gut to the entire bar.

Jeff was over it. "Leave him," he said sourly. "Leave the sorry son of a bitch."

"He's right," Matt chimed in. "If we try to help him any further, we'll pay for it for a week with Regal. Let's go."

Matt reached for Kennedy's arm, but he ducked. He jumped up and yelled, "Bee-yow!" and smacked the top of the older Hardy brother's head as he came back down. "Let's bust it!" he yelled as he skulked toward the exit.

William Regal was closing in. Jeff and Matt took off in the direction of freedom, but Matt tripped over the pool table and landed on his face. Jeff saw his brother fall, but kept going. He recalled his grandfather (or was it his aunt?) once telling him, "Clumsiness is like a fool's dirty laundry. It should never be shared."

Matt silently cursed his brother for not helping him, but he kept his head down and crawled along the sticky floor, intent on making it out before Regal had a chance to stick his electric cattle prod anywhere near his precious ass.

"Fuck!" Matt said under his breath. Some pig had thrown up on the floor and the idiot bartender hadn't bothered to get anyone to clean it up. Matt's hand was covered in yellow slime and he was not happy about it. But he continued crawling toward the exit and finally made it to the door.

Regal saw the door open, but saw no one entering or exiting. He didn't know that Matt Hardy had just crawled his way to freedom right under his snooty English nose. "Doesn't matter anyway," Regal thought to himself. "I've got bigger fish to fry," and turned his attention to a slumped over mass at the bar.

The dirty straw cowboy hat was a dead giveaway. "Only Michaels would wear that disgusting headpiece," Regal thought with disdain. He took great joy in the thought of shocking the Jesus cowboy back into consciousness. Regal readied his cattle prod and struck HBK square in the kidney.

"Jesus H. Crispy Christ!" screamed Shawn Michaels, as he jumped up from his seat. "Balls, that hurt, you damn English wrangler!"

Regal looked at the risen superstar like a mental patient would look at a candy bar. "Get back to practice, you pissy pile of mung!"

"Take a chill, babes!" HBK said to the irate general manager, and strolled off as if he had never had a drink in his life.

Regal stood there shaking his head and muttered to himself, "Fucking bastards… McMahon has hired a bunch of alcoholic apes. Alcoholic, motherfucking apes."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Just wanted to let everyone know that Onions has no regard for current or past WWE roster situations. In the retarded little world Onions calls their own, all of the wrestlers travel together, work together, and get drunk together. Why not? It makes sense to Onions.**

**The McMahons own everything. Onions owns nothing. On with the story. **

The warm shadows of the North Carolina summer wrapped themselves around him, lulling him into a contented half-sleep. He closed his eyes, and listened to the sounds of the swamp. Layer upon layer, they washed over him.

Suddenly, thunder rent the air. His eyes snapped open as he felt fingers snake into his long, unkempt hair. His gaze was immediately drawn upwards. His aunt bent over him, her ancient face twisted into a mask of anger and stern reproach, her claw-like hand tightly fisting a clump of his blondish hair. He started to ask her what was wrong, why she was so angry, but immediately thought better of it. He stared up at her, his green eyes tearing as she tightened her grip.

"Jeffrey", she said in a low, ominous voice, "I have been looking for you all morning." She did not relax her hold on his hair, and he did not move.

He swallowed nervously. "I'm sorry, Aunt Anabella", he said softly, "It's just such a beautiful day, and I thought I would sit in the sun for a while-"

The slap to his face was sudden, and it left him reeling for a moment. When he'd regained his senses fully, he was looking into the full face of his aunt's fury, which was both rare to see, and utterly unpredictable. He wished his brother was with him now, and wondered desperately where he was.

"You are so weak, Jeffrey", she sighed. Her perfectly-groomed eyebrows furrowed, and her dark eyes raked over his pale, frightened face. She smiled warmly, and touched Jeff's cheek affectionately. "I will teach you to be strong."

Pain. It was all he felt, all he knew. His back was burning, was bleeding, and it wouldn't stop. He saw the whip coming, and tried to prepare for it, but the leather thong slapping against his open wounds was too much. He screamed, screamed until his throat became sandpaper. And through it all, she watched, and smiled, and nodded.

"Jeff!"

He heard his brother calling his name distantly, his tone fearful. Darkness began to replace the hazy sunlight of the North Carolina swamps. Jeff was terrified of the sudden silence, terrified of its implications.

"Jeff!", Matt's voice, louder this time, "Wake up!"

The younger Hardy jerked awake, his eyes wide, his breaths heaving and deep.

When he'd had a moment to compose himself, Jeff realized that Matt was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking at him with concerned eyes.

"Are you alright, man?", asked the older Hardy, dropping a hand on Jeff's quaking shoulder.

Jeff looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face. "Sure. Why wouldn't I be?" His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What're you doing in my room in the middle of the night?"

"Jeff, well, um, you were screaming", Matt said, his eyes intense with worry as he gazed at his little brother.

The younger Hardy felt his gut clench as the full memory of the terrible dream came rushing back to him. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose tightly, as if he had an elusive headache growing just beyond his reach.

"Jeff, what's going on?", Matt said softly, growing more worried by the second.

Jeff didn't reply. He was trying to remember all the details, all the words, all the images shown to him in the disturbingly vivid dream.

"Aunt Anabella", he muttered softly, a faraway look in his eyes.

Matt stared at his younger brother. "What did you just say?"

Jeff's eyes met his brother's. "That big house of hers, in the swamps. We were there, once, a long time ago, when we were kids." His voice dropped to a whisper. "She did terrible things." Matt looked back at Jeff, understanding passing between them. "After mom died, dad never let us set foot in that place again."

"I had a dream about the swamps too", admitted Matt.

Jeff absorbed this information, looking as if he would be sick.

The younger Hardy sighed. He rose, and walked to the minibar. If he was going to get any sleep tonight, he would need a drink to calm his frayed nerves. Bending down, he selected a tiny bottle of Southern Comfort. His lips curled into a bitter smile at the irony of the beverage's name. He poured two glasses, and handed one to Matt.

They downed their drinks, wincing at the bitter taste of the warm alcohol.

Matt rose then, making his way back towards his own room. "Good luck getting to sleep tonight, little brother."

"You too, man."

"Good night, Jeff."

"Good night, Matt."

* * * * * * *

Edge looked down at the urinal, a look of disgust stretching across his long, tanned face. "This bathroom is nasty, dude," he said to Jericho who was standing next to him expelling the remnants of this morning's Crab Palace lager from his system.

"Do you think birds can talk to each other?" Chris asked his tall, muscular buddy.

"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Edge incredulously, thinking his Canadian colleague had finally lost his mind.

"Eh, I was watching some show about birds on the Discovery channel last night," answered Jericho, almost proudly, as if he gained instant credibility for watching an educational program. "I fell asleep right before the part where they were going to say, once and for all, if birds actually communicated with each other. I want to know."

"I don't fucking know if birds talk to each other. I think they do. But I'm standing here pissing, so I don't really care either!" Edge said as he pulled his shiny spandex pants up. "The real question is, why don't Matt and Jeff sew zippers into our damn pants so we don't have to piss with our asses and dicks hanging out?"

"True that, my Canadian brother, true that," quipped Jericho, as he flushed the lager remnants away. "Let's get back out to the ring. I have some ass-kicking to practice." Y2J laughed out loud as he thought about the choreography for tonight's match. He gets to sucker-punch Edge in the kidney and then throw him onto the announcers' table, spilling JR's coffee all over the cowboy wannabee's fat belly. Such fun. "Wrestlers have the greatest job in the world," he thought to himself as he turned and curtseyed to the grand urinals. This was a pre-practice ritual he never missed. Pee and curtsey. Pee and curtsey. It kept him safe.

* * * * * * *

"Son of a bitch, dude!", screamed Jeff, glaring at JBL darkly, "You nearly took my fucking head off!" He grabbed the rope and pulled himself up, his green eyes intense on the pig-faced superstar.

JBL, who had been sparring with Hardy for the last twenty minutes or so, was annoyed to hell with him. So, he'd slipped and kicked for his face. Big god damn deal. He rolled his eyes. Hardy had ducked out of the way, hadn't he?

"Sorry man. I thought my super-kick was supposed to happen there. My bad," the untoned cattle rancher said, half-heartedly.

"Yeah, well, whatever dude." Jeff hated this guy. He had love handles, man-tits and a face only a mother could love. If he was a nice guy, Jeff could overlook the moobs, but JBL was a jackass, plain and simple. The rumor was that one time, a young fan with a backstage pass was getting autographs from some of the superstars backstage and JBL flat out farted in the kid's face. He argued that it was a "special souvenir," a "one-of-a-kind experience." Vince had set the big oaf straight with a good five minutes of harsh words and warnings behind closed doors.

"Alright, let's get back to work," instructed Jeff. He would work his tail off for the fans, even if it meant having to come in contact with JBL's flabby, greasy skin.

Across the gym, there was a second ring set up to make the most of the practice schedule. Chris Jericho and Edge were in the middle of rehearsing their match, and Jericho had Edge hoisted over his head, ready to chuck him over the top rope. All of a sudden, he started to laugh and buckled under Edge's weight. Both wrestlers toppled to the mat with a loud thud.

"What in the balls of hell are you doing, dude?" Edge asked his ring mate, rubbing the back of his spandexed thigh where it hit the mat.

"Oh man, sorry. Sorry! I was just thinking about Rainbow Boy screaming like a girl last night. What a pansy!" Jericho was barely able to get the words out, he was laughing so hard. He motioned for Edge to follow him. "Let's go razz him. Maybe we can make him cry."

Jericho and Edge hopped out of the ring and headed over to where Jeff and JBL were just finishing up the Whisper in the Wind segment of their impending match.

"JBL, dude, you have to get your damn body into the center of the ring!" Jeff yelled, frustrated with the lack of preparation of his pudgy opponent. "The Whisper in the Wind can only work when everything and everyone is precisely where they need to be!"

"I was in the center of the ring, numbnuts!" JBL shot back immediately, and shifted his bulky form into the center of the ring. "Try it again."

Jeff climbed to the top rope and readied himself for the signature move. He was about to leap off onto the waiting mass of flesh on the mat, but was distracted by hissing noises nearby. "What the fuck?" he thought, looking around for the source of the distraction.

"What a pansy!" "Hee hee!" "Waaaaa! Waaaaa! I'm a girl! Waaaaa!"

Jeff jumped to the floor and looked around for where the muffled voices were coming from. Around the left side of the ring, he found them, huddled in the corner, giggling like schoolgirls. Edge and Jericho were pointing at Jeff and laughing.

"PANSY RAINBOW BOY CRYING LIKE A BITCH!" Edge screamed at the top of his lungs. He yelled it so loud, he hurt his throat.

"BITCH BOY HAS A 'GINA!" Jericho almost shit himself from laughing so hard.

"What is your freakin' problem, dudes?" asked Jeff, completely annoyed with his hecklers. "You're so immature!"

"We heard you screaming and crying in your room last night, dude! It was hilarious!" Edge said, rubbing his jutting Adam's apple.

Jeff's face grew tight with anger. "Fuck you", he said, stepping towards the Canadian wrestlers.

Somewhere behind him, Jeff could hear JBL's rasping laughter. It infuriated him.

Glaring, Jeff straightened, bringing himself up to his full height. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he stared Jericho and Edge down.

"It's cool, man", said Jericho, smirking, "It's not like we're gonna tell anyone-"

Jeff rushed forward, and punched him with all the strength he could muster. Jericho's head snapped back with the force of the blow. He had no time to recover, as Jeff hit him bodily, knocking him to the ground. The younger Hardy's fists rained down on Jericho's face, neck, and shoulders, as Chris tried desperately to throw him off. Rage took him over, and he found himself unable to stop.

"Hardy! Yo, man, stop! Stop!", yelled Edge, his eyes wide.

Jeff was deaf to his pleas, and to Chris' grunts of pain. He was exhausted, and at the absolute end of his rope. His punches fell in a steady, unfaltering rhythm as Jericho's pleas rose to a desperate, piercing caterwaul.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE??!!!" A booming voice penetrated the red haze of his fury. Jeff froze in mid-swing. Blinking, he looked up. Mr. McMahon stood over him, scowling down at the unusual scene. Jeff sat back on his haunches, allowing Chris to scurry out from under him.

The Chairman stood there, assessing the situation with the acumen of a mole-man in an underground tunnel. He was used to handling this kind of nonsense, being a father to two of the most drama-hungry people on the planet. He couldn't recall how many times he caught Stephanie and Shane smacking, punching, kicking each other over the years. He planned to treat this scuffle between two of his most promising superstars just like he would his now-grown children, and silently reveled in the sick joy of it.

"Jeff, front and center! Now!" screamed Mr. McMahon, veins bulging out of his stippled, red neck.

Jeff, head down, shuffled over to where his boss was waiting, moving like a beaten animal.

"What in the blue hell is going on here?" questioned the boss-man, his lips curling into the frightening snarl he was known for. "I don't think you beating Chris in the head is part of tonight's routine, Jeff. Explain."

Jeff quickly thought of what he was going to say, thoughts rushing in and out of his throbbing head. "I, uh," he stammered. "I had a bad night and Chris and Edge started in on me and I lost it. Chris put his hands in my face and they smelled like urine and I just lost it. I apologize."

"Well Hardy, you know how I feel about my wrestlers fighting out of the ring. It sickens me, it just sickens me," scolded Vince, his eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead like a fuzzy caterpillar.

Jeff hung his head in shame, and his colorful locks fell down into his hooded eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr. McMahon."

The wide-shouldered chairman stepped forward. "You'd better be, son. You'd better be. And you!" He shifted his attentions to Jericho and Edge.

The overwrought chairman glared, a twitch beginning beneath his left eye. "Any more of this crapola from you two, and my foot's gonna be a permanent fixture in your hairy ass cavities. Got it?"

Jericho and Edge shuffled their booted feet uncomfortably. "Yeah, Mr. McMahon", they muttered in concert.

He nodded, and began to walk away. The three wrestlers watched him go, all breathing a sigh of relief. Suddenly, McMahon seemed to have a thought, and stopped. Turning to look at Jericho, he added, "And wash your damn hands, Chris!"

The chairman stormed away.

When they were sure he'd left the vicinity, Edge and Jericho turned back to Jeff.

"What the fuck, man?", said Edge angrily, "Are you trying to get us shit-canned, or something?"

Jeff sighed tiredly. He'd had enough of this for one day. "Whatever. I've gotta go." He tried to push past the taller men, but they weren't having it. They shoved him backwards.

"It's not as easy as that, Hardy", said Jericho, rubbing his sore jaw, "I believe I'm owed some payback."

Jeff gave them a fierce glower. He said evenly, "Get out of my way."

He tried to push his way through once again, though his efforts were rebuffed by an angry Jericho. Edge ducked behind him, and grabbed his arms, pulling them tightly and painfully behind his back. Jeff struggled like a trapped animal, trying every maneuver he knew to get out of the punishing grip. His anger and anxiety clouded his conscious mind, however, and he found himself unable to do anything but thrash and curse.

"Get the fuck off of me!", he yelled, his voice echoing brightly off the gym walls. Edge twisted Jeff's arm, causing him to cry out in pain.

"God dammit!", shouted Jeff. His attackers, obviously enjoying themselves, began to laugh.

Jericho stepped in front of Jeff. That god damn smirk was written all over his face, and it made the younger Hardy want to start pounding him into a bloody pulp all over again.

"Don't worry, man", Chris said smugly, "I'm not going to start wailing on you. Unlike _some_ people here, _I_ believe in fair fights." Jeff tried to move in Edge's grip, but found it was still rock-solid. He glared. "Despite the fact that you did crap up my stellar appearance. I mean, what are my female fans going to think when they see these bruises?"

Jeff rolled his eyes.

Chris continued. "So now, I'm obligated to get my revenge." He walked over to his duffel bag, and retrieved an item which sent shivers of dread down Jeff's spine. Jericho held a shiny pair of scissors in his hand. "We're gonna give you a nice, new haircut, my friend. I think the 'Randy Orton' is in this season."

Jeff Hardy's eyes widened in horror. His mouth worked, but he could find no words to say. He mutely shook his head, in silent protest. His struggles resumed.

Suddenly, the voice of salvation echoed through the empty gym.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE???!!"

Matt Hardy stood in the doorway, his face displaying unbridled fury at the treatment his brother was receiving.

At the sight of the older Hardy brother, Chris Jericho promptly released Jeff's shoulder-length hair from his grip and stepped back a few paces. Edge did the same. They knew of the bloody rage Matt was prone to when his younger sibling was being threatened. They had witnessed the carnage before.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKERS. IT'S ON. OH YEAH, IT'S ON." Matt said, clenching his fists to the point his knuckles turned white. "Jeff! Formation X! Now!"

On command, Jeff leaped into position next to his brother. The Hardy Boyz stood in front of their prey, menacing, ready to attack.

Edge looked down at the wet mark that was now soaking through his silver pants and grabbed Jericho's forearm for support. He had heard of the carnage Formation X left in its wake and couldn't believe he was soon to be a victim of the same. "Stupid, Edge. So stupid!" he muttered to himself.

Jericho braced himself, placing his right foot a good 18 inches in front of his left, and readied himself for the worst. No sooner had he done so, Formation X sprung into action.

"BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRG!" The sound of the brothers was deafening. In one swift motion, Jeff Hardy's right knee cap was embedded in Edge's face as Jericho's gut felt the full force of Matt Hardy's forehead. Jericho couldn't breathe and fell to the hard, concrete floor. Edge turned to run, but was punched in the back of the head before he could move.

"BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRG!" came again, this time louder than the first. Formation X came down on Jericho from above, like a two-headed angel of death. Jeff kicked Jericho in the left ear while Matt used his stomach as a punching bag. There was only one way to describe the scene. Unrelenting fury.

With Jericho too busted to move or even utter a groan, and Edge lying face down on the ground twitching like a naked Californian in an igloo, Formation X disbanded and became Matt and Jeff Hardy once again.

Without a word to the beaten wrestlers lying on the floor, the brothers walked out of the gym without a glance back.

* * * * * * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey, Loyal Readers. Onions thanks you for sticking around for three whole chapters! The plot is only getting darker as the Hardys are drawn toward Alabaster, and the ridiculousness will only compound as things progress. Onions can't help it. The WWE is a bit of a circus, after all.**

**That said, thanks for reading, and PLEASE READ AND REVIEW. Have fun!**

"Matthew."

A deep, strong whisper vied for his attention, stirring him from soft and uneventful dreams.

"Matthew!" More sharp, more urgent. His ears perked.

He heard stirrings in the dark. Alarmed, his eyes shot open. He blinked as moonlight coming through the gauzy hotel curtains hit his eyes. When he could see clearly, his gaze was drawn to the foot of his bed. A tall, black-clad man with silver hair and a wide-shouldered, muscular build stood there, silently staring at him.

"Matthew", he said quietly, "I look forward to seeing you and your brother again."

Matt stared at him, wide-eyed. "Who the hell are you?", he asked, his voice unsteady.

The man cocked his head, smiling slightly. "You do not remember me? I am sorry to hear that", he said.

Matt sat up, unconsciously trying to move away from his strange midnight visitor. "What do you want, man?", he asked uncomfortably.

The formidable man at the foot of the bed ignored the question, and continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Soon, Matthew. Very soon, you and Jeffrey will return home."

Matt stared.

The tall man's smile widened. "Your Aunt is so looking forward to seeing you…"

Matt gasped. He sat up, shaking, every inch of him soaked in cold sweat. The dream had left him with a pit in his stomach. That man had been strangely familiar.

He rubbed a hand back through his sleep-mussed hair, and sighed miserably. He vowed not to tell Jeff about this. His little brother had enough on his mind.

Rolling over, the older Hardy tried very, very hard to go back to sleep.

* * * * * * *

Triple H made his way over to the schedule board to see where the WWE caravan was headed this week. He honestly couldn't care less, but he was curious all the same.

"Hey Steph, come 'ere, ya little minx," he purred to his wife, the boss's daughter. "Let's see where your little bum bum is going next, shall we?"

"Babe, stop calling my ass 'bum bum.' You sound retarded," Stephanie McMahon Helmsley teased. "We're going to some stupid hick town in North Carolina. Shane told me last night," she said to her beefy husband, looking him up and down as he walked in front of her. "Damn, he is one fine honkey," she thought to herself, smiling.

Triple H looked at the schedule and confirmed what his wife had already told him. "Yep, North Carolina. Some place called Alabaster. Never heard of it," he said, annoyed that they were going to another unknown town. It seemed the venues got a bit smaller and more hick-filled with each passing year.

"Yeah, well, just remember – new town, new place to screw," Stephanie reminded her manly prize.

"Oh YEAH, you foxy bitch!" the 12-time champion said excitedly. "Let's go bang the gong in your dad's office. He's not here for another hour."

"You are a dirty pig! YEAH! Meet you there in a few. I have to poop first," said Stephanie, rushing past him to the bathroom.

Triple H grabbed her ass as she ran past and smiled at his good fortune. He was the King of Kings AND he snagged the boss's daughter. Oh providence!

* * * * * * *

"ALABASTER?!! No fucking way!" screamed Matt, pounding his skull against the plastered white wall of his hotel room. "What the fuck is this bullshit? Is McMahon trying to get us to quit or what?"

"Calm down, bro. He couldn't have known," said Jeff, trying to keep it together in his own head. "There is no way anyone here could know about that place…or about her." Jeff threw up a little bit in his mouth thinking about going back to their hometown.

"But Jeff, there isn't even an arena in Alabaster, for fuck's sake!" yelled Matt, not believing for a second that this was anything but a sick plan cooked up by Mr. McMahon and his bastard team of writers. "They are pissed about the ravioli incident and have been trying to get revenge on us ever since!"

"Matt, you're being paranoid, man!" Jeff tried to calm his brother down. Secretly, he agreed with him, that the writers might be trying to get them back for that last prank with the raviolis, but he wouldn't allow himself to think it. It was too sick, too twisted, even for that sorry gaggle of failed screenwriters and novelists.

"Yeah, well, I think it's bullshit," argued Matt, pacing back and forth like a caged madman. "I'm going to talk to McMahon."

Jeff grabbed his older brother's arm. "No, man. No," he pleaded. "If we have to go back to that hell hole, then we'll go, but we won't do it crying like bitches. We will suck it up and we'll kick ass in whatever ring they put us in and that will be that!" Jeff was trying to pysch himself up as much for his own sake as that of his brother.

"But the box man, the box…" Matt's voice trailed off as he knelt down and hid his head in his hands.

"Fuck the box, Matt! That box is a metaphor to our very being, man! Remember my emoetry and break through, Matt!" Jeff preached to his crumbling sibling. "We will breathe Alabaster's air and we will jump through the hoops of life, man!"

Matt heard Jeff's emoetry and it gave him comfort, as it always did. He composed himself, wiped his tears away and stood up proudly next to his brother. "We will go and rip Alabaster a new asshole, bro! A new asshole!"

* * * * * * *

John Cena walked into the packed conference room, shutting the door behind him. He was one of the last to arrive. This was one of McMahon's meetings, where he would go on for an hour about useless crap for seemingly no purpose at all. All wrestlers on the roster were required to attend.

Greeting a few of his fellow RAW performers as he walked towards the back of the room, he began looking for a spot to sit. He sighed. There were no seats left. Before he sat on the hard carpet, he reached down and adjusted himself. Feeling better about sitting on the unyielding floor now, he plopped down.

Across the room, Mr. Kennedy sat, glaring stonily ahead.

"This fucking sucks", muttered a husky female voice. Kennedy rolled his eyes, then shifted his gaze to the left. The Glamazon was sitting next to him, looking as miserable as he had ever seen her. "Christ on a bike", he thought contemptuously, "I'm nursing a hangover, and now I have to sit through McMahon's bullshit with the Glamazon, who's obviously PMSing. They just don't pay me enough for this shit."

"Hey, Kennedy", she said, grabbing his arm with the strength of a man and squeezing, "I hate these god damn meetings. They mess with my morning flow. I should be stitching up my next costume right now, or meditating by the pool. But instead, I'm stuck in this boxy room, with no sunlight, and stunted energies. You know what I mean?"

Kennedy stared at the mannish woman.

The Glamazon continued obliviously, "I've recently found this Japanese Yoga technique that really loosens me up, gets my energies flowing. At least, more than the American Yoga did. That was crap."

He was never without things to say, never without a witty response. This time, however, was quite different. His eyebrows met in the center of his brow, and his face was the picture of confusion.

"If you want, Kennedy, I could read your cards later-"

Mr. Kennedy rose, vacating the only seat now left in the room, and walked away, shaking his head and muttering to himself. As soon as he got up, John Cena raced to occupy the empty seat. Though it had not seemed so at first, this turned out to be a very bad decision. After only three minutes, the chair was again unoccupied, and remained so for the rest of the meeting.

In the middle of the room, Jeff and Matt Hardy sat drinking their morning coffee, chatting amicably with Shawn Michaels and Hornswaggle.

"So, you're telling me that McMahon spoke with you about a different direction for your character", said Jeff incredulously, "And since you've been playing a leprechaun for months, you were really excited. But you're telling me that he wants to make you a god damn vampire now?!!!! You have got to be shitting me!"

Hornswaggle frowned. "I swear to God. I don't know where he gets this crap. It's like, I can't just wrestle in regular gear like you guys, I have to have a friggin' gimmick, cause I'm small. It sucks."

Shawn shook his head. "Vampires are retarded. He shouldn't make you a vampire."

"I can pull off whatever character he decides. I've pulled off a believable leprechaun for months. It just sucks, you know?"

Matt patted him sympathetically on his small shoulder. He looked across the crowded room, appraising its occupants, checking to see who had shown up for the meeting. It was a well-known fact amongst the higher-ups that the wrestlers loathed these little "staff meetings", which McMahon forced on them every two towns, regardless of whether or not he had something to say. It was, everyone supposed, a way for him to feel like he was in charge.

Matt's tired eyes immediately fixed on two faces, bruised and swollen. Edge and Jericho were both slumped in the corner, their heads down turned, every inch of their bodies exuding the shame of their defeat the other day. He smiled slightly, and looked away. Let them come near Jeff again. He would show them what pain was. Suddenly, the voice of the chairman rang out over the disgruntled crowd.

"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, EVERYONE CALM DOWN!!", said Mr. McMahon, trying to get the meeting started. He stood at the front of the room, next to his daughter Stephanie. She occasionally winked and smiled at Triple H. Their clandestine affections, however, were making the other wrestlers nauseous, and everyone rolled their eyes at the couple.

"Good morning, everybody", began Mr. McMahon, his tone entirely too awake for 7:30 AM, "I hope you slept well, because there's a long day ahead of us today."

Groans of protest echoed throughout the room, and sleep-heavy heads found support in open palms and crossed arms. As was usual when McMahon called these meetings, no one was ready to tackle the day quite yet.

"KNOCK IT OFF!", yelled the irate chairman, annoyed at the inability of his employees to get up before noon. He calmed himself, as much as was possible, and continued. "Some of you may have seen the schedule. We're heading down south next, to a small town called Alabaster, North Carolina." He paused for a moment, as if waiting for someone to recognize it. Jeff and Matt Hardy shifted uneasily in their seats, giving each other sidelong glances. Clearing his throat, McMahon went on, "This is a really great place to be now, I've been informed, since it's summer. The swamps are supposed to be amazing. I added this date to the schedule, after speaking with Alabaster's city council representative. She contacted me, wanting to bring us down to them. They just built a brand spanking new arena."

Jeff leaned over, whispering in Matt's ear. "I don't believe this", he said, "He's acting like we're going off to Paris fucking France. Alabaster is a hell-hole. Who in the hell sweet-talked him into going down there?"

Matt shrugged. "I never knew Alabaster had a city council, let alone a city council representative", the older Hardy whispered back, "It all sounds fishy to me."

"Well, just remember what I said before," Jeff said quietly. "We go down there, we kick ass in the ring, and we move on to the next town and never look back. Deal?"

"Deal, I guess," Matt answered, still uneasy about the whole situation. "I'm bringing my knives though."

* * * * * * *

Chris Jericho looked in the bathroom mirror, studying his flesh wounds and bruised, bumpy skin. "Those fucking Hardy pricks. God damned sons of bitches," he muttered absent-mindedly to no one in particular. He felt, as his Uncle Jed used to say back on the northern farm, like a wet noodle that had been soaking in a bucket of bath water filled with STDs. Jericho was known outside of the ring for his merciless horseplay and juvenile pranks on his fellow wrestlers. Everybody knew it was all in fun. Every single one of those roosters knew that getting jib-jabbed by Chris Jericho was like getting handpicked by God to harvest the orange crop during Florida's famed orchard burst of 1987. Yet here he stood, a bloodied, mangled mess, simply because he dared to poke fun at that rainbow-haired bitch. Jeff Hardy, the golden boy, the arm-stockinged warrior from the south. The wounded Canadian could hardly contain his anger, his fingers almost fused with the yellowed porcelain sink resulting from his death grip on it. "Yeah, well, guess what Jeff?" Jericho's booming voice echoed against the lonely bathroom tile. "You're going back to Alabaster, bitch. And I know what's there waiting for you."

Chris Jericho knew not the path he was about to travel, but he knew he'd meet the devil on the way.

* * * * * * *


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Just a quick word about the following chapter. Onions is not naïve enough to think that the WWE superstars travel from show to show in Greyhound buses. But the thought of all those big, sweaty meatheads crammed into those tiny, uncomfortable seats for hours at a time made Onions laugh. Don't know why. Onions may be losing their mind.**

**On a side note, much love to the WWE for this Matt/Jeff feud! Onions approves. On with the story! **

The Greyhound buses rolled steadily along the nearly-empty highway, their headlights biting into the shadows that had settled onto the sleeping land. It was about midnight, but many of those riding the large vehicles were far from sleep.

Jeff Hardy sat, staring at the silhouettes of the mossy trees against the black sky. He closed his eyes. They were getting close. He tried to tell himself that it would be alright, that this trip wouldn't result in a run-in with their estranged aunt. But there had been too many coincidences lately, with the dreams, and the schedule change. He believed things happened for a reason.

And he knew that Matt was truly scared, though he tried to play the macho superhero. He glanced over at his older brother. He was leaning back in the seat next to him, intent on a book about weightlifting technique. Jeff turned back to the window, and sighed quietly. Things were happening that his practical older brother couldn't explain, and he couldn't control. He almost smiled, thinking about Matt's constant and unyielding pragmatism, though it died on his lips when he recalled Matt's story about the riverbank and the black box.

Jeff shook his head slightly, not wishing to be caught up in such thoughts again. They wouldn't help him now. The bus passed a sign for Alabaster. It was 65 miles away. He took a breath, and steeled himself. Soon, he would have to forget about all of this, and be the performer again. He was actually looking forward to it. These nights were growing longer, and darker. He worked to still the uneasy feeling in his gut, and leaned back on the uncomfortable bus seat, closing his eyes.

"Jeffrey."

Groggily, he struggled to open his eyes. It seemed that he had been asleep for hours, for days even, though his exhaustion told him differently.

"Jeffrey." The voice was deep and strong. Who was calling his name?

"Jeffrey, open your eyes and look at me."

Gasping, he opened his eyes, looking around wildly. It was black as pitch, and too quiet. He thought he heard water churning in the distance, but it sounded- muffled, somehow. It was then that he realized that he was lying on his back.

Jeff tentatively stretched out his hands, to feel his surroundings. He had a pit in his stomach, as he anticipated what he'd latch onto. His fingers grazed cold metal, just an inch or two from his sides. He felt panic well up, and tried desperately to suppress it, moving his hands to the area in front of his face. Cold, hard metal. Unable to breathe, losing control, he began to pound on the lid of his steel prison, screaming to be let out. He felt his fists bleeding, but didn't care.

"Jeffrey", came that resonant voice again, filtering through the confines of the hated box, "Please calm yourself."

The man's condescending tone infuriated the younger Hardy brother. He punched the lid again, just for good measure.

"I've had enough of this bullshit, man!", Jeff yelled, "Leave my brother and me alone!"

"That is something I cannot do", said the speaker, his tone serious, "You will learn the error of your ways, and you will correct them, either by choice or by force. It is up to you."

Not understanding what "errors" he was referring to, not knowing who this was supposed to be, barely even knowing if this was a dream or reality, Jeff lay back, terrified of what the immediate future might hold for him.

Suddenly, he heard scraping noises coming from the outside of the lid, followed by loud clinks. A moment later, the lid was lifted off of the black metal box, and thrown to the ground. Moonlight assaulted Jeff's eyes, and he blinked. A tall man, intimidating in his stature, stood looking down at the younger Hardy. In his black garb, he reminded Jeff of a priest, or a judge. But the thought that a priest or a judge would throw him into that box was ridiculous.

The silver-haired man bent down, to be at Jeff's eye-level. He was chilled by the man's gaze.

"The box was to remind you, my young friend, that accord is always the better path", said the strange man, "You and your brother are Anabella's flesh and blood. When the time comes, you will not cast her away."

Jeff glared furiously. "Is that a threat?"

The man smiled. "Perhaps it is simply a… strong suggestion. I shall leave it at that." He rose, and began to walk away, leaving Jeff sitting, dumbfounded, in the metal box. The young Hardy's eyes bore holes into his departing back. Suddenly, the tall man turned, as if he'd forgotten something.

"While you are here", he said, "you may as well take advantage of our hospitality." Smiling warmly, he turned and began to walk away again.

Confused, Jeff began to stand, only to find that he was physically unable to. Panic gripped him again, that same helpless feeling he'd had when he'd been trapped in the box. He heard movement off to his left, and swiveled his head to see what it was. His green eyes widened in terror. The heavy metal lid to the box was slowly dragging itself across the grass, towards him. Desperate thoughts raced through his feverish mind as he renewed his struggle to get up, and get out. The lid was banging itself against the side, making a god-awful screeching noise as metal rubbed against metal. There was nothing he could do. His legs had already been covered. He had to lie down. He took a breath and held it, then shut his eyes tight. He heard the lid clang shut. The world disappeared into blackness.

* * * * * * *

Matt woke up at 3:30 in the morning, drool dribbling down his chin, his weight-lifting book lying open on his chest. Rubbing his eyes and looking around, he saw that the caravan of buses had stopped at a truck stop to fuel up. He noticed that a lot of the wrestlers had gotten off to stretch their legs. He stretched, closing his book and putting it in his bag.

Suddenly, Matt heard Jeff begin to whimper. Brow furrowed in concern, he looked to his younger brother, who was curled in on himself, as if for protection.

"Jeff", said Matt in a soft voice, shaking his shoulder gently, "Wake up, little bro. You're having a nightmare."

At Matt's voice, his immediate distress seemed to lessen. Jeff's body, which had been as taut as a bowstring, now relaxed, and his breathing grew less harried.

Relieved, Matt sat back. He wondered what Jeff was dreaming about.

"Aw, is Jeffie-poo having bad dreams?", sneered the last voice in the world Matt wanted to hear at the moment.

The older Hardy brother calmly rose, standing to face Jericho, and a reluctant-looking Edge.

"Well, if it isn't the Canadian Asshole Posse", said Matt dryly, adding, "Those are some fancy bruises you've got there, guys. I mean, I knew you were doing each other, but I didn't know you liked it so rough." He smirked.

Edge scowled, furious that anyone would besmirch his reputation as a bonafide ladykiller. "Fuck you, Hardy! At least I'm not doing my little brother!"

Jericho grinned. "Now, Edge, everyone knows that the Hardys are fucking. It's just something nobody talks about."

Another whimper came from behind Matt. He needed to take care of Jeff.

He stepped forward, his eyes locking with Jericho's. "If I see you outside of the ring again, asshole, I'm gonna put your dick where your nose used to be. And you even look twice at my brother, and I will destroy you." Matt turned his attention back to his brother.

Edge stood there watching, uneasily, twitching at the thought of facing that crazy Formation X shit again. He winced as he remembered the indescribable "thing" the two Hardy's had become in that terrifying moment. Never again. Oh please, lord, never again. The tall, blonde wrestler turned back toward his seat.

Jericho was not as hesitant about raising the Hardys' ire. "Hey Matt," he said, laughing. "Do you shave your pussy and pits like your girlfriend Jeffina?"

Matt stopped in his tracks, his fists clenching into instant weapons. He looked slowly over his shoulder, his stubbled chin scraping along the smooth lycra fabric of his shiny, hand-sewn shirt. "Chris," he hissed, as his wide brown eyes became murderous slits. "Walk away, Chris. Please walk away."

Jericho chuckled. "Oh Matthew, why don't you make me," he said, taunting the frizzy-haired Hardy Boy. He was enjoying playing the villain so much, he didn't notice that Edge had abandoned ship. Not that it mattered. He preferred one-on-one combat anyway.

By now, Matt had turned completely around and stood facing his abusive coworker, his head cocked to one side as if waiting for something. Jericho prepared himself for battle, bending his knees and resting his full weight on his back foot, ready to strike.

Edge peeked over the headrest of his seat, watching with wide eyes as the rivals stared each other down in preparation for battle. Jericho looked as smug as ever. The blonde wrestler seemed certain that he could take Matt without a problem. Edge grimaced, not so certain that Chris' confidence was warranted this time. Matt's dark eyes were aflame with anger, and he looked ready to kill someone at a moment's notice. Chris was standing right in the path of the storm. Edge shook his head. It was time to find a new friend.

"Go ahead, shit-lick", taunted Jericho, smiling crookedly, "Hit me. Hit me right here, you brother-screwing assgrabber. Come on!" He gestured to his chin, moving closer to Matt. The older Hardy stared stonily at his tormentor, but did not reply. "Come on, retard, I'm giving you a free one!" Matt didn't move.

Chris glared at him. "Fucking hit me!!!!!", he yelled, getting into Matt's face, "What's your problem?!" He got close enough so that their chests bumped together. Matt glared, and pushed him, causing Jericho to stumble backwards. After recovering, the blonde wrestler smirked, and crossed his arms over his chest in an admonishing fashion.

"Now Matt", he said, a dangerous undertone running beneath his composed voice, "You know that we're not supposed to fight outside of the ring. You remember what McMahon told us. He told me that the next person to fight would be suspended. It would be a shame if I had to go and tell McMahon about your incessant outbursts." Matt glared darkly. "And what then? You'd be suspended, here in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere. That would suck, wouldn't it? And what about poor little Jeffie?" In his desire to utterly destroy Jericho, Matt had forgotten Jeff for the moment. Now, he realized that his brother's distress had worsened. He needed to wake up.

As Matt turned to a squirming, moaning Jeff, he heard Jericho say, "You don't have to worry. If you're suspended, Edge and I will take good care of Jeffie. He'll be in the best of hands."

That was the last straw. The older Hardy turned around, a scowl on his face so awful that it took Jericho aback for a moment. It was all the time he needed. Matt grabbed a hold of the bus seats on either side of him, hoisting his body into the air like a great, meaty gymnast. His booted foot flew into Jericho's face with unbelievable speed and force behind it, dropping the Canadian wrestler to the ground. Edge let out an involuntary whimper from his hiding place as his friend was felled.

Jericho lay on the ground, moaning in pain and holding his jaw. Reluctantly, Edge slid out from the shadows and began to help Chris to his feet. When Matt turned back to them, the pair couldn't help but flinch in anticipation of more pain. All he did was give them a warning, however.

"Get off of this bus, assholes", he said, "And Jericho, if you say one word to McMahon, I will spend the rest of my natural life making yours a living hell."

He turned back to Jeff, taking great satisfaction in the sounds of their shuffling feet exiting the bus. Let them suck on that for a while. He bent down and shook his brother's shoulder.

"Jeff, wake up!"

Green eyes snapped open suddenly, and Jeff shot up, looking around without recognition of his surroundings. Matt dropped a hand onto his shoulder. Jeff recoiled, as if he'd been struck. He curled in on himself, pulling away from his brother's grasp.

"Jeff!", Matt said, his brows furrowed in concern, "You were dreaming again. Wake up, man. Wake up."

"Ugnnuhhh," the younger Hardy groaned incoherently. His head felt like it was caught in a vice, throbbing and pounding like a jackhammer. He saw a blurry figure leaning over him, calling his name earnestly. After a moment, his vision cleared and he saw his brother Matt, a look of concern on his round face.

"Jeff, you ok man?" asked the older Hardy.

"Ugnnuhhh…yeah, brother. I'm ok. Just a rough dream," Jeff answered. "How far are we from Alabaster?"

Matt cocked his head to one side and said, "We're at a truck stop. Some guys had to piss. I think we're about 3 hours out."

"Ok man. I'm going to catch some more sweet Z's," Jeff said sleepily. "Wake me up when we get there."

"Yeah, ok man. Get your Z's, and some P's and A's while you're at it," Matt chuckled out loud. He cracked himself up sometimes. He sat down across from his brother, watching over him like an angelic Diablo. As he watched Jeff fall back into a deep slumber, he heard a commotion outside of the bus window. He was so over the drama that these WWE pussies surrounded themselves with. He took a cue from his brother and closed his eyes, thinking of the Jersey shore and ice cream sundaes.

The commotion Matt chose to ignore would have given him a chuckle as well. Like many of the other superstars, Mr. McMahon had also had enough of Jericho's antics and decided to make him and Edge ride the rest of the way in the roofless equipment trailer that was hitched to the back of the bus.

"Enjoy the ride, boys!" guffawed the Chairman, as he walked toward the bathroom. "Let's go, people! Finley, get your ass back on the bus! Snitsky, finish brushing your teeth so we can get back on the road!"

All of the wrestlers hustled at the sound of the boss's booming voice, and the busses were soon teaming again with its bulky passengers. All was as it should be. Some of the divas were preening and giggling in the back of the first bus. In the second vehicle, Stephanie and Triple H were humping in the tiny bathroom. And as the third and last bus pulled away, Y2J and Edge could be seen holding on to the side rails of the equipment trailer for dear life.

All was right in the world.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Good day, illustrious readers. Onions apologizes for taking so long to update. This story is pure stupidity, and pure fantasy, and that is why Onions loves it so very much. Updates will be coming with more frequency, as this tale unfolds.**

**Thanks to all reviewers. Onions loves reviews. **

**Unfortunately, Onions does not own anything or anyone in this fiction; WWE takes it all.**

It was a beautiful day in Alabaster, North Carolina. The sun was shining and it was a perfect 75 degrees. But there was a strange electricity in the air, as if something was on the verge of happening.

Three huge rented Greyhound buses were making their way through the center of the tiny town. It was an ominous caravan, a wall of metal coursing through the veins of the quaint countryside.

The sleeping passengers didn't see the eyes staring at them from the windows as the buses passed. Chris Jericho, stiff and bruised from the bumpy ride, was the first to wake. He silently cursed McMahon and the Hardys, but found solace in the pain he knew was coming.

Edge burped and fell immediately back to sleep, his long face resting on a plastic bucket in the corner of the equipment trailer. Jericho looked at his dimwitted partner in crime and sighed in pity. "What a god damned jackass," he thought to himself.

Just then, the wheels stopped and the loud roar of the Greyhound engines quieted, leaving grim silence instead. Inside the buses, slumber came to an abrupt end as the passengers woke and began razzing each other, almost immediately, as if the morning sunlight brought with it mischief and bad behavior. Restless from a very long ride, Hardcore Holly stripped off his purple hot pants and threw them at Santino's head.

"You mahthafahking bahzoon!" screamed Santino, peeling the bright, sweaty spandex from his scowling face. "Take-ah your-ah stinking pants-ah and shove them up your-ah ass!"

Hardcore Holly just laughed and gave the Italian import the finger.

In another bus, Mickey James was crowing like a deranged rooster, trying to wake up her fellow passengers. Cena shut her up pretty quickly when he hit her square in the eye with a beer-soaked sock.

Ridiculous behavior was rampant on the road, just as it was in the locker room. Wet socks and sweaty drawers careening through the air was pretty standard in the WWE. Mick Foley once filled an unused condom with shaving cream and thumbtacks and launched it at Jerry "the King" Lawler while he was commentating, on air. Foley ended up paying a fine for that one.

The eyes were watching all of this from the windows of the town and they were not amused.

* * * * * * *

"Come on, you useless meat-heads, move your asses!", screamed Mr. McMahon, who was running around like a muscle-bound chicken, trying to herd tired wrestlers back into the buses they had vacated not two hours earlier, "We have exactly nine minutes to get to the city hall."

Shannon Moore groaned as he dragged himself towards the hated Greyhound bus. He glanced over his shoulder once, longingly, at the hotel. He sighed. It would be hours more before he or any of the others got to sleep.

Suddenly, he jerked forward, as someone punched him in the back.

"Yo, bro, wake up!", said Matt Hardy, laughing.

"What the fuck, man?!", returned Shannon, glaring at the older Hardy brother.

"Sorry, dude", apologized Matt, "It's how I keep myself awake, you know?" He smiled, a thought suddenly coming into his slow-moving brain. "You know, I was punching Jeff, and pulling his hair out, and shit. It was cool." He looked proud as he admitted this. Suddenly, however, his expression darkened. "But then he said that if I push him one more time he's gonna cut my hair off while I'm sleeping." Matt shuddered. "He sounded serious, man, and you know how I feel about my hair. It's my life, man!"

Shannon rolled his eyes and kept walking. It was going to be a long day.

The two friends climbed onto the bus, wincing slightly at the pungent odors of sweat and old food mixing in the air. They spotted Jeff in the back, sitting with, of all people, William Regal. The younger Hardy was shifting uneasily in his seat as the unpleasant Englishman spoke to him in a low, intense voice.

"What the hell is going on?", wondered Matt, whose gait increased when he saw that his brother was being harassed. Shannon was right behind him.

Their forward progress was halted, however, when Matt careened face-first onto the sticky bus floor. Laughter assaulted his ears, reminding him of the time that he'd been caught naked in the hallways at school. Everyone always laughed at him. Furious, he jumped up, ready to fight. His gaze met Jericho's cool smirk, and his eyes traveled slowly downward. The Canadian superstar hadn't even bothered to retract his foot from the aisle.

"Trip on something, Matty?", asked Jericho.

Matt reared back and punched him in the face. Chris fell back into Edge's lap, unconscious.

Matt and Shannon continued their progress towards the back of the bus, intent on Jeff and Regal. The general manager of RAW appeared to have finished his business with Jeff, however, because he stood as soon as Matt and Shannon appeared, and walked away without a word. Jeff just sat there, staring forlornly out of the dirty and scratched window.

"Jeff?", said Matt, taking Regal's place in the seat next to his brother, "What the hell was that about?"

The younger Hardy looked over at his brother, his gaze as serious as Matt had ever seen it. "It was business, bro. Believe me, you don't wanna know about it."

Before Matt could protest, a guttural cry came from the seat across the aisle, startling them both. The Hardys both whipped their heads around to see what was going on, only to see a wild-eyed Shawn Michaels with hair askew and straw cowboy hat hanging limp, looming over a terrified Shannon.

"Oh shit!", whispered Matt, "I've seen this happen before! Shawn goes bat-shit if anyone sits in his seat with him."

HBK was mumbling incoherent sentence fragments as he threatened the Hardys' friend. "Ooooo…… yeah yeah….. Clowns are bad….. They attack you…."

"O…K….", said Jeff, carefully pulling Shannon away from Shawn, "He's sorry he sat with you. Won't happen again, man."

Shawn was already snoring.

"Sit your asses down!", came Mr. McMahon's admonishing cry from the front of the bus, "And dammit, all of you, I hope you at least brushed your teeth and hair today. I don't want the mayor and city council of this place thinking we're a bunch of B.O.-ridden jerk-offs! Hygiene, people, and I'm speaking to you, Snitsky and MVP, in particular."

The buses started towards town, watched by unseen eyes.

* * * * * * *

"They're here, Anabella", a voice hissed from the shadows beyond the ornate bookcase.

"Is all prepared?", she asked quietly, looking out of the window.

"All is prepared", the mysterious voice replied, "The Judge is at the City Hall, readying their welcome."

The genteel old lady smiled in anticipation. "I believe I will join him. I should be there to greet my grandsons."

"Do you have any instructions for us?"

Anabella turned to face the creature in the shadows. Her gaze was intense and steely as she replied, "Yes, I do. I want you and the others to guard the borders of this town. Ensure that none of them leave Alabaster. _None_ of them, do you hear? I'll not have one of those muscle-bound idiots ruining my plans."

The shadow creature began to fade back into the darkness. "Yes ma'am. It will be taken care of."

She turned back to the window. Plans racing through her sharp mind, she rose to start the long journey towards town.

* * * * * * *

Three Greyhound buses drove slowly through the dirt roads of Alabaster, North Carolina. The heavy hanging foliage of the swamplands, buzzing with insects and calling birds, closed in on either side of the shadowy and narrow road. Occasionally, the caravan would pass one-room huts constructed of rotting wood, some with bedsheets hanging over the front portal to serve as doors.

The occupants of the huge vehicles pressed their faces against the windows, their eyes wide in disbelief.

"Jesus Christ!", exclaimed Ken Kennedy, "We're wrestling _here_ ? This is Deliverance country!"

"There's no way in hell this place has an arena", said Batista, his eyes roaming the swamps.

"I doubt it even has running water!", agreed Triple H, shaking his great head.

In the back of the bus, Jeff and Matt Hardy listened to the other wrestlers talk with disdain about this place. It bothered them more than it should, they realized.

"Oh my God, that place had a fucking slaughtered deer hanging from the roof!"

"Oh yeah? Well this one has a toilet in front of the door!"

Matt and Jeff exchanged meaningful glances. Neither of them wanted to be here. These swamps held nothing but bad memories for both of them. As the buses moved closer to Alabaster's main square, the brothers could feel their stomachs clench painfully in anticipation of what awaited them there.

"Hey, Hardys!", called Jericho, leering evilly, "You're from somewhere around this shithole, aren't you?"

Everyone on the bus turned to face Matt and Jeff, awaiting their answer.

"God damn him", whispered Matt under his breath.

"Yeah, we used to live here, so what?", replied Jeff angrily, nervous energy translating immediately into rage.

Matt grabbed his arm, attempting to drag his younger brother back down before a fight erupted. Jeff pulled out of Matt's grasp, however, his eyes intent on Jericho and the others who were now staring at Matt and himself as if they were dirty freaks.

Jeff marched up to Chris Jericho and got within an inch of his skillfully stubbled chin. "Were you born a raging asshole or did you learn that from your mom?" Jeff inquired as he puffed his chest out defiantly.

Y2J laughed out loud as he stood there eye to eye with the Charismatic Enigma. "You are a retard, man," he said. He raised his right fist and intended to punch Jeff in the face, but he stopped when he caught something strange out of the corner of his eye. A white mass inched its way between the puffed chests of Chris Jericho and Jeff Hardy. Jeff knew instantly what it was, but Jericho couldn't understand what he was seeing.

Suddenly, he jumped back as he realized what he was witnessing, a look of utter disbelief on his Canadian mug. "I…uh…didn't think..."

"That's right, asshole. They're real. The wings are real," sneered Jeff, proudly looking at his brother's full glory.

"What do you think of me now, bitch?" Matt asked, standing there, his white, feathery wings fully extended across the entire width of the rented Greyhound bus.

Jericho's face went pale. He mumbled something that sounded like, "I've got to tell her. I've got to warn…Angelic Diablo…" but his voice trailed off to an indistinguishable level. He turned and ran to the front of the bus, knocking Melina and her traveling band of papparazi to the ground.

"Gay-ass Canadian fucker!" yelled Melina as Jericho kept going.

Jericho ran right past McMahon without even acknowledging him. Vince just let him go and muttered, "Bitch-ass loser," under his breath.

Y2J would not surface again for twenty-four hours' time.

* * * * * * *

The City Hall of Alabaster was a one-floor wooden structure that had been constructed in the early 1700's by settling Quakers. It lay in Alabaster's thriving business district, which consisted of four family businesses that had been there for nearly as long as the town's ancient center of government. The building itself boasted two carved wooden pillars, with cracking, yellowed paint, and large, filthy windows that were impossible to see through. It truly represented Alabaster, and its people.

This morning, a contingent of the town's best and most honorable representatives stood in front of the rotting building. Business owners, farmers, an alcoholic lawyer, and the Judge and Anabella themselves were all there to greet the WWE caravan as it pulled up.

"Remember your part in the plan", whispered Anabella to the Judge, false smiles pasted on their faces as they conversed in low tones, "Reveal nothing to them yet."

The tall man nodded, though had no chance to reply as he realized they were being openly stared at. The wrestlers had begun to disembark from the buses, and Matt and Jeff now stood in the writhing sea of muscle mass that was the WWE, watching their aunt with troubled eyes. Anabella smiled warmly at them, then looked back at her dark friend.

"Don't worry", she said, "They will come to us." She stepped forward then, her fathomless eyes falling on Vince McMahon. The elderly lady's expression was congenial and welcoming.

"Mr. McMahon, I presume?", she said, reaching out to take his clumsy red fist in an amenable handshake.

The chairman nodded, pumping her arm vigorously and grinning toothily. "And you must be Anabella, chairman of the city council." He leaned in conspiratorially, saying in a low voice, "I respect women in power, ya know."

"Quite", she replied dryly, turning to the Judge. "This is Alabaster's mayor, Judge Smith."

The dark-clad man inclined his head.

Vince's eyes fell onto the motley assortment of individuals standing in front of the City Hall's doors then. His heavy brows furrowed. "And who are these, um, fine people?", he asked, taking an unconscious step backwards.

Standing behind the Mayor and Anabella were roughly ten humanoid figures, clad in varying degrees of dishevelment, quite unlike any City Council the gaping wrestlers were accustomed to. Looking down the line of characters, it was like watching a silent, stationary parade of mutant lifepods that had washed ashore on a sad, New Jersey beach.

One of the males stood approximately 8 feet tall, even towering above the mongoloid form of the Great Khali and the intimidating height of the Big Show. His jawline looked as if he had been smashed in the chin with an anvil and his balding head was shiny and misshapen. He groaned intermittently, taking great breaths to fill the enlarged cavity in his massive, lopsided chest. He was wearing a weathered white and red "My Name Is" tag with the word "Krust" emblazoned on it with fading black ink. It was barely visible against his lime green acid-washed overalls, which were covered with round, brown stains.

Directly next to Krust, stood a portly woman with a pronounced underbite jutting out of her bottom lip. Even though she was standing motionless, leering at the crowd of wrestlers in front of her, it was very obvious that her left leg was about 6 inches shorter than her right. In a more fortunate town, she may have benefited from a prosthetic attachment of some sort, but Alabaster did not offer such advanced medical services. Her jutting teeth were yellowed and crooked and she was dressed in a dirty gingham dress that was at least three sizes too small. She was so jarringly unattractive that it would not be inconceivable if she announced herself as Mrs. Snitsky. A broken pitchfork seemed quite at home in her hammy hand.

Then there was the drunk lawyer. He had been sipping from a tarnished metal flask ever since the wrestlers stepped off the buses. Even from 20 feet away, one could smell the stench of cheap barley gin wafting from his sickly mouth. At first glance, he didn't exude an aura of a legal representative. Rather, he looked like a vagrant from the alleyways around Madison Square Garden, but he was indeed Alabaster's prized attorney. He wore a tattered grey pinstriped suit, which had a large hole in the left knee, showing a bruised and bloody cut underneath. His nose was also dripping small drops of blood, but he didn't seem to notice, or to care.

There were several other humanoids flanking Anabella and the ominous Judge, all with some form of disease or mutation, some disgusting trait that made them unfit for civilization. It was a frightful sight all around, even for the big, tough professional wrestlers of the WWE who had, on numerous occasions, seen JBL's nude, lumpy body bending over in the locker room.

"Let us pray," said Anabella, her clear voice ringing out over the confused faces of the assembled crowd.

Matt and Jeff shifted uncomfortably, both wanting nothing more than to be back in New York City or Cincinnati or even Toronto. Anywhere but here. Matt poked his brother's arm and directed Jeff's attention to the mongoloids standing behind their deranged aunt. "This doesn't look good, Jeffro. This doesn't look good."

Jeff was about to say something, when a loud noise came from the front of the crowd. "This is BULLSHIT, man!" All heads turned to the source of the noisy exclamation. Ken Kennedy stepped forward and continued, "I am a WWE wrestler. We are WWE wrestlers, god dammit! Lady, you don't even have a stadium in this shithole you call home. McMahon, I say we get back on the buses and vamoose our asses the fuck on outta here!"

Anabella looked at the Judge, a wry smile on her lips. She turned her attention to Kennedy and spoke in a low tone. "My dear man, of course wrestlers of your stature and experience deserve to perform in the best arenas and cities of this great nation. The people of Alabaster would not have brought you here without having a suitable place for you to carry out your show. I assure you, your needs will be met."

Her minions began muttering excitedly, and Krust clapped his hands together clumsily, like a small child might applaud when Barney sang "I like you, you like me…"

"Quiet down, my pets," admonished Anabella calmly. Her face suddenly twisted into a frown. "To the arena!' she shouted, her voice now shrill and course against the tranquil backdrop of the rundown shantytown.

A huge, black net dropped out of nowhere onto the assembled wrestlers and scooped them up into a horrible pile of arms, legs and heads flailing, punching, kicking and screaming. A vast array of profanity flew out from the center of the netted mess. "Motherfucker!"…"Asshole!"…"Get your pig elbow out of my face, bitch!"…"Your pits smell like ass!"…"Get your foot out of my crack!"

The net swung right over City Hall, flinging wrestlers every which way as it moved and jerked across the sky. It must have been hooked up to a crane or some sort of mechanism, but no such contraption was readily visible. McMahon was trying to speak, but his face was lodged tightly into someone's fat belly. The center of the pile smelled like rotting peanut butter and sweat – the scene was not pretty. After what seemed like hours, the net settled abruptly onto the ground and opened up, spilling the clammy wrestlers out on a wooden platform in the center of a swamp.

For a moment, no one moved. The wrestlers lay on the dirty, overgrown landing area, sprawled on top of one another. Suddenly, a muffled cry came from the bottom of the fleshy pile.

"WHAT IN THE FUCK WAS THAT??!!!!!" No one seemed to have an answer for the anonymous inquisitor, however.

Slowly, and with a great deal of angry groaning, the group began to untangle itself. Shawn Michaels, who was falling apart on the best of days, stumbled to his feet, frisked himself for any beer he might've hidden on his person, then immediately fell down and began snoring. Used to HBK's outlandish behavior, the others let him catch up on his much-needed rest.

"Get your balls out of my nose, Umaga!!!!", yelled Lance Cade, trying to push the huge man away.

Umaga, incensed at this treatment, farted in Cade's scowling face.

The scene was the same all over the platform that the wrestlers had landed on. Wrestlers were slowly struggling to their feet, some getting into fights when they found themselves tangled up. Jeff and Matt, who had landed on the edge, watched the scene with disbelief.

"I didn't know Big Show could even bend that way, dude!", exclaimed Jeff, his eyes wide. He watched as the huge man was bent backwards, into a U-shape, trying to extricate the back of his head from The Great Khali's armpit.

"ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" The cry of the Chairman echoed through the swamps, disturbing wildlife and sending ripples through the murky water. The WWE superstars froze, staring at Mr. McMahon, who was red-hued and hyperventilating. Everyone watched him, afraid to speak when he was in such a state. His eyes bulged, and his face began twitching.

Breathing heavily, his hands shaking, he pointed upwards, above the trees. Everyone followed his gesture with their eyes, and gasped. They'd been so busy trying to sort themselves out from their trip that they hadn't even noticed the arena looming in front of them, above the mossy trees.

"Holy shit", whispered Matt. He unconsciously grabbed his brother's arm, for comfort and support, as he looked at the monstrous and unholy thing that his aunt had somehow managed to construct for their benefit.

The much-touted "arena" was like nothing any of the wrestlers had seen before, nor hoped to see again. Wooden in its construction, it looked much like the plaything of a moronic, demented child stacking blocks. Standing on great stilts that sank into the muddy, unstable ground, the circular, roofless building rose imperiously over the thick trees of the swamps. As they slowly, reluctantly made their way towards the monolith, the wrestlers tried not to trip over myriad tree trunks that dotted the landscape along the way. They had obviously been freshly cut, to judge from the sawdust littering the ground.

"Daddy", hissed Stephanie, "You said there'd be an arena. My man can't fight in this shithole-"

"SHUT UP, STEPHANIE!!!", yelled the chairman, past all patience with his daughter and her lusty husband. He stared at the wooden abomination as they grew closer to it. It looked as if it had been built in several days' time. They had spared no time for the aesthetic, either, that was for sure. Full trees had been cut down, stripped of branches and leaves, and tied together to form the outer building. Towards the back, when they'd obviously become more pressed for time, they hadn't even bothered to take the trees apart. McMahon scowled as he realized there were still squirrels, birds, snakes, and god knew what else nesting in the "walls" of the "arena" where his people would supposedly be wrestling this week.

"This is bullshit", he said to himself, walking briskly in front of the others, "BULLSHIT, DO YOU HEAR ME???!!!!"

The superstars knew better than to be near McMahon when he was like this, and they all took great steps back, away from him.

"It _is _a bit rustic, a bit primitive, but I was sure that a man of your experience and worldly knowledge would appreciate the admittedly simple structure we in Alabaster have constructed for you." Anabella stepped out from beneath the shadows of the great wooden building, her dark eyes locked on the chairman.

"I- um", McMahon struggled to find a reply to her seemingly- complimentary speech, but found himself speechless. The others, having never seen Vince without some type of response, were flabbergasted.

"Please", she continued congenially as the Judge and several of the strange folk from the town joined her, "allow me to show you the interior."

The attractive older woman led them up a creaking ramp, and into the hand-built arena. As they walked inside, the wrestlers shifted nervously at the constant noises the arena made as it settled slowly into the swamp.

"This just gets weirder and weirder", whispered John Cena, as he swung his great meaty head around to take in the room.

It was, as described, an arena, with rough wooden benches circling a filthy, stained wrestling ring. The ropes surrounding the edges of the ring were rough, hemp string, and the turnbuckles were made of hollow pipes, also filthy. Cena wondered if they might've been taken from someone's septic tank, but then dismissed the idea as he realized that no one around here even bothered with a septic tank; they simply put the toilets in their front yards.

"As you can see", said Anabella, "this place should serve you well for your show."

Her eyes never left Matt and Jeff as she spoke, and the brothers could no longer ignore the rising fear, the memories, or her eyes as they pierced right through them.

* * * * * * *

**Onions hopes you'll stick around for the next chapter!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Onions thanks anyone who is still reading this! Onions would like to let readers know that this was written in the days when Regal was General Manager of RAW, so not all characters appearing in this story are up-to-date, or even employed by WWE anymore. Onions would also like to inform whomever it may concern that the WWE owns all recognizable characters herein, yada yada yada.**

"Well where the hell did she damn well go?!!!", yelled the irate chairman, veins bulging out of his huge, ridiculously thick neck.

"I don't know", replied The Miz in a shaky voice, looking around nervously at the impinging swamplands, "She and her group of freakoids were here, and then they weren't. And now we're stuck here, I guess, unless they plan to throw us back to the hotel in a giant colostomy bag, or something." McMahon glared at the snarky, fauxhawked wrestler, apparently not amused. His eye twitched as he watched the younger man slink away to join his tag partner, John Morrison, who was currently tying his t-shirt into a half-shirt in order to best display his god-like abs.

"Alright, alright", muttered Vince, looking over the chaotic scene of WWE superstars milling over the broken, shadowed ground beneath the wooden arena, "How in the name of hell are we gonna get back to the hotel?"

He cleared his throat, and everyone froze. No one wanted to further irritate the irate chairman after the day they'd had.

"ALRIGHT, LISTEN UP!!!", he screamed, his voice hoarse from shouting, "We're gonna start walking back." None of the superstars could suppress their groans of distress. "KNOCK IT OFF! It'll only take a few hours. Now GET MOVING, you useless assholes!!!" He surveyed the group of miserable superstars and divas, just waiting for one of them to say something. When no one said a word in reply, he moved in what he prayed was the right direction, grumbling about white trash bullshit and the endless crap he had to deal with from the mongoloids on his roster.

* * * * * * *

Two hours later, the noon sun was beating down full force on the Alabaster swamplands. The sausage-like hamhocks of the massive wrestlers trudged through thick and prickly underbrush, sweat streaming down the massive plains of their chests. Had there ever been such a thing as a shirtless sweaty meathead convention, this may have been mistaken for it. The thick and moisture-filled air choked them, causing well-toned athletes to heave with the strain of the seemingly endless hike.

And in the midst of it all were Matt and Jeff Hardy, who seemed to know their way through this strange place with ease.

Jeff was clutching himself tightly, as if he were cold. "She looked right at us, Matt", he said softly, his eyes fixed on the endless green panorama of the swamp.

"Yeah, I know", replied the older Hardy, his eyes narrowing at the memory, "I saw her."

The brothers' halting conversation was interrupted suddenly by Stephanie McMahon, who was running in the opposite direction that the caravan was heading. She giggled in her husky alto voice, and threw a look over her shoulder. She cried out dramatically, "Oh, help, the swamp monster's coming to get me!!"

Triple H, who was right behind her, made obnoxious growling noises in his throat. He nuzzled her neck like a retarded vampire, and cried out, with as much dramatic fervor as his wife, "Ah! At last I have found my prize!"

Everyone who heard this sickening declaration groaned, and someone sounding suspiciously like Kennedy called out, "Shut the fuck UP!"

Oblivious to their nauseated audience, the Game and the boss' daughter began to make out, right then and there. Triple H scooped her up without missing a stride and carried her into the heavy foliage. The caravan kept walking, leaving the humping power couple to find their own way home.

* * * * * * *

Six hours later, the ragged band of wrestling superstars finally found themselves at the edge of the swamp. They were bloodied and gasping for air, as their lungs tried to expel the heavy swamp muck they had been breathing for what seemed to be days. It was a tragic scene, really. Spandex-clad athletic gods reduced to limp human weeds, struggling to stay alive in a muggy, insect-laden soup.

Hornswaggle's hat was bobbing up and down as he trudged furiously toward dry land, his head barely making it above the waterline. He spent most of the trek balancing on Finley's shoulders, but the Irish superstar's strength gave out 30 minutes ago and the littlest wrestler had to make it out on his own.

Behind Hornswaggle, Deuce and Domino were carefully protecting each other's leather jackets from the elements. "Wipe me off, man," pleaded Domino to his partner, tag team and otherwise. "If this jacket gets wet, I'll die. I'll just die!"

Edge was grunting uncontrollably as he tried to push Vickie's wheelchair out of the muddy water, but Vickie's weight was driving the wheels further and further into the mud with each attempt. "Kendrick! Khali! Come help me with this damn load!" shouted Edge, brushing his greasy hair out of his eyes. The motley trio was finally able to heave Vickie and her wheeled contraption out of the swamp.

"Ugh, god! That was ridiculous!" exclaimed the bug-eyed wrestler, trying to catch his breath.

"Oh honey, you are an amazing piece of manly hunkiness!" gushed Vickie to her fiancée. "You are like Thor, only Canadian!"

Edge muttered under his breath, "And you're like Delta Burke, only fatter."

"What, baby?" asked Vickie, not able to make out what Edge had said.

"Oh nothing. I'm just happy you're happy," answered the broken man. He silently wished he was in Cabo, with his friend Sammy drinking wabos on the white sandy beach.

Just then, a shrill screech interrupted his peaceful daydream. He looked toward his bloated fiancée and his wide eyes became even wider. Vickie was frozen in her chair, staring down at her arms and legs in horror. She was covered with leeches!

"Oh my god," whispered Edge, secretly hoping the creatures would suck all of her blood out so he wouldn't have to deal with her anymore. "Don't move, babe!"

Edge screamed at Kendrick to get a stick, but the young wrestler's ugly white pleather jacket got caught on a branch and he couldn't move.

McMahon, who had been busy picking thorns out of his ass, waddled over to see what the commotion was. "Hey, what's going on here?" he asked.

"Excuse me!" yelled Vickie, still frozen in place. "Edge, you god-damned idiot! Get these things OFF OF ME!"

Edge, however, was hiding behind a tree, taking a dump. His intestinal tract didn't hold up well under pressure and, as much as he wanted to help his love and benefactor, he needed to release.

"EDGE! EXCUSE ME! WHERE ARE YOU?!" whined Vickie.

McMahon couldn't stand leeches. He always fast-forwarded through the leech part of _Stand By Me_ – it made him queasy. Just like Mae Young's floppy breasts, which she unfortunately like to show at inappropriate times. Suddenly, he knew how to get rid of them. He told Vickie to calm down and hold her breath. He then bent over near her chair and blasted a monstrous stream of methane out of his bum, knocking all of the leeches off of the Smackdown General Manager in one shot.

It was a concerto of gas, a symphony of falling leeches, a lullaby fit for a swamp.

Vickie thanked the Chairman, shook his hand and wheeled off to look for her lost fiancée.

Now on solid ground, McMahon looked back at the swamps and sighed. A part of him felt like he was leaving something behind, something his house in the Hamptons couldn't provide. Perhaps one day, he would harness the powers of the swamp and be truly happy once again.

* * * * * * *

McMahon understood the exhaustion all of the superstars were suffering as a result of their trek through the swamp the previous day. Therefore, he decided to let them sleep in.

Hornswoggle was dreaming that he was the big winner at a hot dog eating contest, when his phone ringing rudely interrupted his dreams of glory. Groaning loudly, he rolled over and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?", he whispered hoarsely.

"GET UP!", yelled the voice of Mr. McMahon, "IT'S TIME FOR OUR COMPANY MEETING! DOWNSTAIRS IN HALF AN HOUR!!!" The chairman hung up without another word, leaving a slightly miffed Hornswoggle to feel around in the dark for the light switch.

When the small man finally managed to pry his gummed-shut eyelids open, he was horrified to see it was 6:30 in the morning. This was supposed to be their day off, god dammit!

Down the hall, pale grease-head CM Punk was sleeping like a small child. His vapid brain was currently feeding him images of cheese logs and lip wax. He sighed contentedly, passing gas in his sleep.

Suddenly, his bedside phone rang, jolting him awake. His eyes, bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles, widened in utter shock as he shot up and screamed like a twelve year-old girl. Realizing he was not being attacked, then, he finally picked up the phone.

"Hel-"

"ABOUT DAMN TIME YOU PICKED UP!", yelled Mr. McMahon, sounding as if he were on his way to serious problems with constipation, "COMPANY MEETING! HALF HOUR! DOWNSTAIRS! BE THERE OR YOU'RE FIRED!"

The chairman hung up on CM Punk, who felt like he wanted to cry after all of the stress he'd undergone in the last thirty seconds. Thinking back to his dream, he remembered the beautiful cheese logs, and licked his lips. He wanted cheese. Another fart escaped his sagging buttocks as he rose to get ready for the meeting.

Matt Hardy was already awake when the chairman's phone call came. He'd barely slept at all, unlike his brother, who was snoring contentedly beneath a pile of comforters. Annoyed at the fact that the phone was ringing this early in the morning, Matt snatched it up and said a brisk, "Hello?" He looked to the lump of covers that represented his brother, hoping that the noise hadn't disturbed him. It appeared that Jeff slept on, unfazed.

"GET YOUR ASSES UP, HARDYS!", screamed Mr. McMahon into the telephone, obviously tired of coddling his whiny, half-awake wrestlers, "IF YOU TWO AREN'T DOWNSTAIRS AT 7:00 SHARP FOR THE MEETING, I SWEAR ON GOD THE FATHER HIMSELF THAT I WILL RIP YOUR BALLS OFF AND BAKE THEM FOR BREAKFAST!"

A dial tone immediately followed this rampage, leaving an exhausted Matt shaking his curly head in confusion. Hanging up the phone, the older Hardy sighed and pulled back the covers from his brother's head. He lightly shook Jeff's shoulders.

"Jeffro", he said, "Wake up."

The younger Hardy stirred in his sleep, furrowing his brow and moaning. Rolling over onto his side, he sleepily opened his eyes.

"What time is it?", he whispered, his voice thick with exhaustion. His green eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles as he gazed drowsily up at his brother.

Matt shook his head and smiled wryly. "Too damn early to be getting up", he replied, "But the Chairman has requested our presence."

Jeff sat up. "God dammit! Not another meeting!"

"Yup, another meeting. Come on, get up.", Matt replied wearily, wishing he'd had the sense to sleep last night. He had a feeling he would need reserves of energy this day.

Jeff looked over at his brother, concerned. He seemed especially worn-out this morning. "Are you alright, man?", the blue-haired wrestler asked, concern etched on his statuesque features.

Matt nodded, letting his eyes slip to the floor as he replied, "Yeah, I'm fine. I just didn't sleep much last night, that's all."

Jeff studied his brother's face. "You didn't sleep at _all_, did you?

"I'm fine, Jeffro", said Matt dismissively, "Don't worry about it." He looked at the clock. "We've gotta get going. We're gonna be late."

Jeff rolled his eyes. "Vince and his stupid fucking meetings." Sighing, the Rainbow-Haired Warrior rose to his feet. "Let's get this over with."

Downstairs in the tightly-packed hotel cafeteria that doubled as a conference room, the wrestlers were not even trying to hide their displeasure at being awoken at 6:30 in the morning. Loud grumbles and protests echoed in the tiled room, which smelled faintly of fishsticks from the previous night's repast.

"Yo, man, why the fuck are we here?!", said Kennedy, never caring who heard his course, loud-mouthed comments, "This place smells like an L.A. hooker's hiney-hole!"

"Shut up!", cried William Regal, scandalized that wrestlers on _his_ roster could be so disgusting and crude, "Just _shut up_ you great pig of a man!"

Kennedy guffawed loudly, and made a crude gesture at the Englishman. Scattered laughter passed around the room from the overtired wrestlers. Regal, glaring, stood with as much dignity as he could muster and pulled his pants down, mooning his blonde nemesis.

"Suck on this, Kennedy!", he cried, laughing hysterically, as he slapped his flabby butt-cheeks.

"SIT DOWN, YOU FUCKING RETARDED APE!", said McMahon, who had just entered the room and was taking in the horrifying scene before him.

Regal jumped at the sound of his boss' voice, and consequently let out a spontaneous fart. Head bowed, the English brawler humbly stumbled towards his seat, tripping several times over his sagging pants.

The gathered wrestlers looked to the Chairman, who stood in the doorway still. His skin was unpleasantly mottled with red blotchiness this morning, and the bags beneath his eyes appeared to have doubled in size. He looked over the room with an intensity that made everyone in his sights feel both uncomfortable and paranoid.

He entered then, and shut the door behind him. Facing the wrestlers once more, he seemed about to speak, then stopped as if another thought had intruded. "Where the hell is Jericho?"

No one volunteered any information, though the Hardys gave each other a meaningful glance.

"Now that I think about it, I haven't seen his sorry ass since before our tour of the arena." Mr. McMahon looked around expectantly, pausing to stare hard at Edge for a long moment. The blonde Canadian tried to pretend he hadn't seen his boss' glare, and focused his large eyes on the dirty rug of the cafeteria/conference room floor.

Mumbling darkly to himself, the Chairman pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he had a headache building behind his eyes.

"Anyway, I've called you all down here this morning because I've come to a decision", he said, his voice heavy, "I started this company based on the idea that we would bring entertainment to everyone, without prejudice and without judgment. I have always believed that the show must go on, no matter what, and that belief has carried us through some rough times." The older man paused, and sighed. This morning, Vince McMahon truly looked his age. "Today, I will be canceling our booking here."

"Oh, thank God!", yelled someone in the back. Soft chatter immediately began amongst the wrestlers. Canceling a booking months in advance was one thing, but while they were in the middle of the town in question, days before they were meant to go on… This was an unheard of circumstance.

"SHUT UP!", yelled the Chairman, in no mood for dealing with a room full of rowdy punk-ass superstars this morning, "This, as you know, is not the way we do things. But, unfortunately, we were misled. I won't risk the safety of my wrestlers on that half-ass ring they have, nor allow anyone to set foot in that building again, which is obviously sinking into the swamp as we speak. I'm going down to the City Hall to break the bad news, and I want everyone packed up and ready to leave by the time I get back."

He left without another word. As soon as he'd gone, the gossip and speculation began. Conspiracy theorists, such as Rey Mysterio, were convinced that he had a secret reason for canceling the show. He put forth that McMahon and Anabella had, perhaps, been lovers once, and she had harbored his love-child. Therefore, would it not make sense that she would want him to leave before the bastard child saw its father and realized the uncanny resemblance?

The Hardys listened to Mysterio weave his tragic tale of love lost with amusement. The Mexican high-flyer watched too much Telemundo.

"We're off the hook", said Jeff, smiling as he clapped his brother on the shoulder.

Matt shook his head. "The day McMahon can talk Aunt Anabella out of anything is the day I'll dress like the Miz", he said musingly, "No, I won't be convinced of anything until we're well beyond Alabaster's borders, and on with our lives."

Edge watched the brothers with hooded eyes, listening to every word they said. In Chris' absence, he would learn as much as he could about Matt and Jeff, and their intentions. Anabella's punishment would be swift if he failed, but the rewards of success would be far greater.

* * * * * * *

Chris Jericho found himself in a compromising situation, kneeling before the mysterious elderly woman who had contacted him, and her male counterpart. He'd been told that her name was Anabella, but that he was always to address her as "Madame", which he found more than a little gay. But, he had a feeling that the tall gentleman in black, who had only been introduced as "the Judge", would rip his asshole into three parts if he called her anything else. So, "Madame" it was.

The pair glared down at him like angry gods judging a penitent at the altar. Their faces were made unearthly in appearance by the dancing shadows of two tall pillar candles burning on the table and dimly illuminating the small foyer of Anabella's house.

"What do you want?", she hissed in a low, angry tone, "Why have you come here? Do you not realize that they will be looking for you?"

"I- um, I-", Chris stammered. She bent over, her glittering, intense eyes locking with his fear-filled ones. He felt movement behind him, and realized that the Judge was at his back. This thought did not comfort him.

"Speak", she said, and brushed her hand lightly over his quivering cheek.

As if this small touch had jolted his brain back to action, Chris began speaking in a gush, saying all he had come to say.

"It's about Matt. I came to warn you. I wasn't sure if you knew or not, but in case you didn't-"

Anabella straightened, her expression grim, telling him without words to get to the point, and quickly.

"He has WINGS, for god's sake! Big, white feathery freakin' WINGS!!! He fucking whipped them out and almost beat my ass with them, but I managed to get away, and come here-"

He stopped when he saw the expression on her face. Her regal features, normally so poised were now drawn down into a mask of utter fury. Several long, drawn-out moments passed before anyone spoke.

"Um, Madame? Could I go now?"

Her fury, previously directed inward, now fell fully onto Chris Jericho. She said quietly, "No, you may not. You will stay exactly where you are." Frightened out of his mind, Y2J didn't move a muscle. He watched as the intimidating woman softened her gaze. She turned her eyes to the Judge.

"This man has brought us valuable information, Judge", she said, "And he has kept an eye on Matthew and Jeffrey these past weeks for me." Chris visibly relaxed, thinking her mood had changed for the better. "But, he has seen too much. And, he has cursed in front of a lady. He must be taught the consequences of such things."

Chris' head shot up in alarm as he felt the rock-hard grip of the Judge's huge hand on his shoulder. Before he could protest or even think of attempting escape, he was on the ground, suffering blow after blow from the Judge's remorseless fists. Unable to control himself, he felt his bowels soil his bikini briefs.

Anabella, though satisfied, could not help but think of her boys at this moment, and how happy she was that soon they would be purified of the world's sinful influences.

"Soon", she whispered, a small smile finding its way onto her red lips, "You will come to me very soon, my boys."

* * * * * * *

**Aunt Anabella is a total bitch! Send Onions reviews, and Onions will be eternally grateful!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Onions has officially decided that this story is retarded. And this is good. Just so there's no confusion going forward, Onions must reiterate in each chapter that, in Onions' little retarded tale, all of the brands are traveling together always. They are traveling on Greyhound buses, instead of airplanes. And, that this story will take place during the time that William Regal was GM of RAW. So, now that Onions has cleared all of that shit up, thanks to those of you who reviewed, and here's the next part!**

**(Oh yes, Onions almost forgot. WWE owns all recognizable characters herein; shamefully Onions does not.)**

The conference room/ cafeteria of Alabaster's Route 67 Howard Johnson had taken on yet another function this afternoon. The tables and uncomfortable folding chairs had been cleared out, and thin mats had been laid down in their place. All over the fish-smelling room, WWE superstars grappled with each other, putting together ideas for impending matches and killing time before Mr. McMahon's return from City Hall.

Towards the center of the room, Jeff and Matt were throwing themselves fully into the spontaneous workout, thoroughly enjoying the welcome distraction. Matt picked Jeff up, and body-slammed him into the mat, causing the younger Hardy to groan in pain.

"Ow!", complained Jeff, "Son of a bitch!"

Matt helped his brother up, snickering. "Sorry, man. You alright?"

Before Jeff could reply, he heard the door to the room open with such force that it slammed against the wall. The wrestlers all stopped their grappling, and openly stared at the person standing in the doorway.

Chris Jericho, his face bloody and bruised, his hair covered in mud and swamp muck, leaned heavily against the doorframe, his bright blue eyes falling immediately onto the Hardy boys. His clothes were torn into filthy shreds which hung loosely from his battered frame. He took a halting step forward, raising a shaking hand to point at his arch-nemeses. All around the room, wrestlers began to whisper excitedly at the show unfolding before their eyes.

"You", hissed Jericho, his gaze unwavering, "You motherfuckers!"

Matt and Jeff shot each other nervous glances.

Movement to Chris' right made him rapidly turn his gaze. He saw Edge starting to tiptoe out of the room. "EDGE, TO ME!", cried Jericho in a voice filled with equal parts fury and insanity.

Head bowed and shoulders slumped, Edge shuffled over to his Canadian pal.

Returning his attention to Matt and Jeff, Y2J took another halting step towards the brothers. His eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Battle of the bands, bitches! Fozzy vs. that piece of shit you call Peroxwhy?gen! Tonight, midnight, Walmart parking lot!!!!", he said, his voice low and furious, "You're MINE! You are fucking MINE!!!"

He turned on his heel, almost fell, and began to walk out, saying, "Edge, come along!"

The Rated R Superstar scurried after Jericho like a whipped dog.

Matt and Jeff, ignoring the stares of their fellow superstars, looked at each other grimly. So it had come to this. God help them all.

* * * * * * *

Vince McMahon walked through the crumbling doors of the Alabaster town hall with trepidation. He was not looking forward to canceling the show. After all, these backwoods mutants looked like they, of all people, could use a good show to get their minds off of their dismal existences. But, he'd made his decision, and wouldn't be swayed from it.

As he entered the building, he squinted his eyes in the dim and dusty interior. The dirty building, decorated in ill-kept antiques and moth-bitten oriental rugs, gave the chairman the impression that he was standing in the middle of a tomb. Steeling himself, the normally unflappable McMahon called out hesitantly, "Hello? Is anyone here?"

As if she had been waiting in the shadows the entire time, Anabella appeared, her gaze intense on Vince.

"I thought I heard someone enter", she said, her lips pursed in a tight imitation of a smile.

Uncomfortable under her severe scrutiny, Vince got right to it. Clearing his throat, he said, "Yes, I actually came to speak with you about the show."

Her eyes glistened like two black beetles in the low light. "I trust all is going well. The townsfolk are greatly anticipating it."

He didn't like her tone. She seemed utterly civil and benign on the surface, yet he sensed danger lurking beneath her southern charm.

"I'm afraid we've taken it under consideration, and, as your facility does not meet industry standards, we are going to have to bow out of this one. I have my wrestlers' safety to consider. We would be happy to sign autographs-"

He trailed off as he watched Anabella's formerly statuesque façade devolve into an ugly, grimacing mass of wrinkles and lines.

"You are canceling the show?", she asked in a quiet voice that seemed to fill the silent, dusty chambers of the city hall.

McMahon nodded in response, unsure why he was allowing this woman to intimidate him. He had made his decision, after all. He stood taller, and puffed his chest out a bit. That always made him feel more confident.

Anabella regained her composure suddenly, as if it had never been lost. She smiled in that disarming way, her piercing gaze fixed upon the chairman.

"I understand that you are concerned for your wrestlers' safety", she said, the warm, rolling southern accent helping to lessen the effect of that unflagging stare, "And I am sure that each one of my fellow townsfolk would appreciate an autograph. You are kind to offer even that. But, Mr. McMahon," she took a step towards him, "Is there nothing we can do about the show? No compromise we can reach?" She took another step towards the chairman, so that they were almost touching. "I would be indebted to you. After all, the people of Alabaster are rather desperate for entertainment." She boldly extended her arm and ran two fingers down the lapel of his gray suit jacket, a half-smile on her smooth face.

Vince stood there, completely dumbfounded.

"I assure you", she continued, straightening out imaginary wrinkles in his collar with her dexterous fingers, "Our ring is completely safe. When you inspected it, it was not completed. In one day's time, we will have a regulation ring." Her fingers moved lower, causing the chairman's eyes to widen. "Please, Vince, don't take this away from Alabaster's people." Her dark eyes locked on Vince's confused gaze.

The chairman looked away, shaking his head angrily. "I cannot put my superstars at risk! I'm sorry, but-"

She grabbed him by the front of his jacket and hauled him forward then, leaning up to kiss him long and hard on the mouth. Vince froze, shocked by her unexpected actions, though he did not pull away. After a few moments, she moved back, her unfathomable eyes raking over the chairman's face.

"Just another day", she whispered huskily, "Make your decision then."

Nodding shakily, Vince made his way out of the dusty town hall and back into the sunlit world.

* * * * * * *

Jeff sat on his bed at the hotel, bent over a black acoustic guitar. His brows furrowed in concentration as he plucked each string gingerly, and turned the corresponding tuning pegs at the top of the instrument. The younger Hardy had purchased this guitar in a pawn shop in Seattle several years back, and though he knew it was a piece of crap, he loved it all the same.

It had been a while since he'd played it, and Jeff was desperately trying to get it in tune before the Battle of the Bands that night. He wasn't having much success. After hitting the G string 20 times in a row, he finally threw the guitar onto his bed in frustration.

"This is so god damn stupid!", growled Jeff, "I'm not going."

The blue-haired wrestler had been distressed and angry ever since McMahon's return that afternoon. Many of the superstars, including the Hardys, had been waiting impatiently in the lobby of the quaint country hotel, bags packed, ready to move on. The chairman had stumbled in, late afternoon sunlight at his back. There had been dark circles beneath his eyes, and, of all things, a confused expression on his lined face. When he'd realized he was being stared at, he'd grumbled softly, "We're staying for another couple of days." Ignoring the protests and outbursts from the wrestlers, he'd walked up towards his room. Jeff snarled as he remembered the look on McMahon's face. Annabella was winning, and it infuriated him.

Matt walked in from the bathroom, where he had been meticulously lining his eyes with black charcoal.

"You're going, Jeff", he said dryly, "Cause if you don't, we're gonna hear about it from every fucking retard on this roster for the rest of our lives. So just get the stupid guitar in tune, and we can get this shit over-with!"

With that, Matt disappeared back into the bathroom to continue his grooming.

Jeff sniffed. "My guitar's not stupid", he muttered.

Just as he was picking his instrument back up off the bed, Shannon Moore burst through the door, dressed for the occasion in tight leather pants, heavy eye makeup, and nothing else. "Aw yeah, bitches, you ready to go kick Jericho's ugly ass?!", he yelled in a high-pitched voice.

"Fuck you, dickhead!" A Fozzy supporter had obviously heard Shannon's outburst.

Laughing, Shannon gave the finger to whoever was down the hallway, then entered and shut the door. He looked around at the chaotic mess that was the Hardys' hotel room, shaking his head. Jeff was just finishing tuning the guitar, and he finally put it down with a relieved sigh. Shannon fixed his gaze on the younger Hardy, admiring his wardrobe. Jeff usually wore things that were unique and creative, but tonight he had pulled out all the stops. He wore a black leather kilt with a tight, white wifebeater. Doc Martins and heavy gray knee socks completed the outfit. He'd also painted his left arm and neck in an orange and red pattern which resembled licking flames. He had pulled his bluish hair up into a topknot, and, like Matt, applied a small amount of charcoal to his eyes. He was nothing, if not dramatic.

"Nice skirt, man", cracked Shannon, smirking.

"Nice lipstick", returned Jeff.

"Hey, Bowie wore lipstick! Lipstick is fucking cool!"

"What's going on out here?", said Matt, poking his head out.

"And what is Matty wearing tonight?" Shannon ran over to the bathroom door.

Matt was donning a black mesh top and black zebra-print zoobas. He wore a huge silver cross around his neck. He'd been working on his hair when Shannon burst in, so it was half tamed, and half in a state of frizzy disarray. He was wearing charcoal around his brown eyes, and, much to Shannon's shock, a tiny bit of dark lipstick as well.

Shannon grinned mischeviously. "Nice try, Matty, but Jeff's outfit is way cooler."

Matt rolled his eyes in response.

Outside the window, Anabella's minion listened to every word, and remembered.

* * * * * * *

Midnight was approaching, and Jericho and Edge were speeding towards the local Walmart in a "borrowed" car. Chris had made the call to his fellow bandmates earlier in the day, promising them copious amounts of beef jerky and beer if they could show up on time and performance-ready. He had no doubts. They would be there, tuning up when he and Edge arrived.

Jericho, who had developed a rather unpleasant tick in his right eye, sped down the dirt road, his gaze flitting back and forth from the path ahead to his silent companion.

"They'll be there tonight", Jericho said suddenly.

When he didn't elaborate, Edge prodded, "Um, who?"

"That crazy old bitch, Anabella and that assclown Judge!", he replied in an angry burst. Suddenly realizing what he had said, he seemed to shrink in on himself, and was silent once more.

Edge asked quietly, "Why will they be there?"

"They're the ones who wanted this whole god damn battle of the bands to happen!", Jericho replied furiously, his glazed blue eyes falling upon his frightened comrade, "They beat the shit out of me, then told me when I returned I should challenge the stupid fucking Hardys to a battle of the bands, at midnight tonight." His voice dropped. "They're setting a trap for Matt and Jeff." Chris almost sounded guilty as he spoke this revelation out loud for the first time.

Edge didn't quite know how to respond, so he said nothing. They were arriving at the scene of tonight's battle. The Canadian superstars took in the scene with complete awe, and more than a little trepidation.

The tall metal lights that were scattered about the parking lot revealed a scene taken from a post-apocalyptic, Mad Max movie, where the denizens of the world have cast aside civilization and embraced their baser animalistic instincts. Jericho and Edge had been to Walmart many times, but they'd never seen it like this.

Two makeshift stages had been erected in the middle of the empty parking lot. How this feat had been accomplished with the resources available to the wrestlers, neither man could fathom. They saw that nearly the entire roster had shown up to take in the show, though after the scene Jericho had made in the cafeteria/gym earlier that day, he wasn't surprised about that. The wrestlers may have been huge bodybuilders with huger egos, but that never stopped them from passing gossip around like a bunch of old, withered biddies. The meatheads and divas were drinking what looked to be moonshine, and falling all over each other in drunken, obnoxious bliss.

Chris and Edge exchanged a look as they saw that Jeff was sitting on the edge of the stage, holding that shitty beat-up guitar and talking to a few guys in the audience. He looked completely at ease, and ready to play.

Jericho moved his gaze to the other stage. It was empty.

He imagined himself, choking the god damn Hardy Boyz, and began to laugh hysterically. Edge began to get out of the car.

"They didn't come. My fucking band didn't show up!", Jericho said in a shaky voice that was half laugh and half scream.

Pulling his electric guitar and amp out of the back of the car, Chris got out and slammed the door with as much force as he could muster. The car alarm began to go off. Pulling at his hair, he told Edge to take care of it, and walked towards the empty stage.

Ignoring the jibes of his fellow wrestlers, Y2J began to make his way through the packed crowd. Suddenly, a voice rang out over the din.

"Hey, Jericho!", yelled Matt Hardy, "It's cool that at least one member of Fozzy showed up, but, uh, where are you gonna plug in that amp?"

Laughter sprung up out of the crowd like the Judge's fists, assaulting him mercilessly.

"Motherfucker", he muttered darkly, continuing on his way.

When he reached the stage, he dropped the amp and guitar without ceremony, and proceeded to look around for any power outlet within reach. There was none. This was all Anabella's fault.

He glared across the crowd at his nemesis, Jeff Hardy, who appeared ready to play. The little bastard grinned at him.

Suddenly, the Undertaker stepped up onto Jeff's stage, causing a hush to fall over the inebriated crowd. The only sounds were the still-honking car alarm, and Edge's muffled curses as he tried to disable it.

The Deadman gazed around at the drunken revelers, his eyes hard and cold. "We are here tonight to witness a holy tradition in the WWE. The Battle of the Bands goes back to the very inception of wrestling, when Arlan "the Asshole" Briggins and his Irish Whelps battled Vladimir "Red Dick" Dickish and the Russian Sveltskis. Ever since that epic fight, wrestlers have viewed the Battle of the Bands as a nonviolent way to both settle conflicts and humiliate your opponent at the same time. To those doing battle this night, we wish you godspeed."

The Undertaker walked slowly and majestically down the stairs, cutting a swath through the packed crowd effortlessly and disappearing into the Alabaster night.

Jeff took this as his signal to begin. He looked over to Matt, who nodded that he was ready. As soon as Jeff began banging on his trusty black acoustic, the older Hardy began to pump his hips and twirl around the small, unstable stage. The crowd quieted down a bit when they realized the show had begun.

"OH! HO! Why do you feel you gotta goooooooooooooooooo?????!", wailed Jeff at the top of his voice, "OH! MY SOUL IS ON A ROOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!"

The audience looked perplexed at the odd and cryptic lyrics the younger Hardy brother was spitting forth, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves nonetheless. As Matt's interpretive dance continued to unfold around the stage, the audience grew more rowdy and excited.

"OH! WHY! Why the hell can't I fly? Because I'm a mammal like yooooooooooouuuuuuu!!!!!!!!"

Matt made flapping motions with his arms, to mimic a bird. Jeff, meanwhile, began headbanging, much to the delight of the easily-amused wrestlers.

"CHEESE! WHIZ! I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS! OH, it's cheese in a caaaaan, maaaaan!"

In the background, the car alarm ground steadily on.

When his first song had ended, Jeff received thunderous applause from the audience. Jericho, who was sitting slumped over and dejected on the opposite stage, muttered, "This fucking music sucks my asshole."

Jeff sang three more songs, his blue topknot flying around and about until it was a disheveled mess.

His last song, "ButterFace", was going over quite well with the crowd.

"WHAT HAPPENED THAT YOU LOOK LIKE THAT? YOUR HEAD IS MISSHAPPEN BUT YOUR BODY'S ALL THAT! OOOOOOOOOOH!"

As Jeff was entering the final chorus, he glanced over at the very edge of the Walmart parking lot, where the light from the harsh lamps met the darkness of the woods beyond. What he saw there made his blood freeze, and he nearly dropped his guitar in shock.

Anabella and the imposing man she seemed to always have by her side these days, the man who had been introduced as the mayor of Alabaster, stood on the edge of the light, watching them intently. This sight alone may have frozen him to the spot with dread. But it was the man, the man both brothers had seen in their nightmares, holding Shannon prone that made him drop his guitar and stand there, unable to move or think. Matt saw this awful tableau the same time Jeff did, and he froze in place, staring in horror. Their friend appeared to be too frightened to struggle in the tall man's grip. Before either Hardy could do anything, the three of them were gone, leaving the brothers standing onstage, frozen to the spot.

The drunken assholes in the audience immediately burst into thunderous applause.

Without pretense, Jeff ran off of the creaking stage, his brother right behind him. "You saw that, right?", the younger Hardy whispered shakily, his eyes trying to penetrate the blackness of the forest.

Matt nodded. "Yeah", he whispered.

Jeff looked at Matt, practically hyperventilating from fear and stress. "We have to go after him, Matty", he said, looking more shaken and vulnerable than Matt ever wanted to see.

The older Hardy looked at his brother, his eyes wide. "You know this is a trap, right? You know we're playing right into her hands?"

Jeff's green eyes darkened, and narrowed to slits. "It doesn't matter anymore. She's not gonna do to Shannon what she did to us."

The older Hardy hesitated before nodding his assent.

Ignoring the catcalls and slurred cries for an encore, Matt and Jeff skirted the crowd, and silently followed Anabella and the Judge into the swamplands.

* * * * * * *

**Onions likes three things in this life: Jeff Hardy, Cheese, and Reviews. Don't deprive Onions. That's just mean.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Ohhhhh, trouble is afoot! Onions cannot wait to see what is going to happen!**

**Onions owns nothing! The WWE owns all!**

Shannon Moore was staring at a dusty, cracked portrait on the wall. It portrayed a hard-eyed, cruel-looking man in his middle years, wearing clothing of the previous century. Shannon found that he was unable to take his eyes off of the man's face. He looked like Matt. Though, Matt's eyes had never held such detached contempt.

"The portrait is of Alexander Hardy." Anabella's voice sounded from somewhere behind Shannon, and he immediately tensed upon hearing her. Light footsteps moved across the plush oriental rug, stopping behind his chair. "A great man", she continued, resting her hand lightly on Shannon's shoulder, "and the epitome of what a southern gentleman should be."

Shannon flinched under her touch, though he did not move away.

"I have often looked at this portrait, and thought of Matthew", she said wistfully, "They look so much alike." Her sharp nails dug into Shannon's skin suddenly, and he gasped in pain. "But Matthew is nothing like him."

The door opened then, and two of Anabella's watchmen ambled stealthily in.

"They are approaching", reported one of them. He had fierce eyes, a filthy, nappy beard, and long, frizzy brown hair that hung to his shoulders.

Anabella straightened, meeting her minion's gaze. "Thank you, Mutt. Bring them to me, here. And be sure, on pain of death, that they are unscathed."

"Yes, my lady", he muttered. The two creatures backed out of the room, bowing their heads respectfully.

Shannon felt anger building in his chest, to the point that it would burst. Ignoring the debilitating fear that this woman seemed to inspire in him, he turned to face her.

"What are you gonna do to Matt and Jeff?", he asked, his voice shaking.

Anabella's thin lips quirked in a joyless smile. "What I must."

Shannon felt a heavy hand fall upon his shoulder then, and knew the Judge was behind him.

"Sit down." The sharp voice, richly accented in the tones of the deep South, seemed to resonate through the young wrestler's body, paralyzing him to the spot. He sat down heavily on the uncomfortable wooden chair they had provided for him, glaring at his captors.

Suddenly, angry voices could be heard shouting from outside. They seemed to be coming from a short distance away, sounding through the mossy tree line on the edge of Anabella's property.

"My boys are finally coming home", Anabella said, a rapturous smile on her painted face.

She looked out of the window. Her triumphant smile slid into a tight, angry frown as she observed something out in the darkness. Regaining her composure quickly, she turned to the Judge and said in a domineering tone of voice, "Watch him."

Without another word, the intimidating woman swept out of the room, leaving Shannon with his tall, dark-clad guard. The large man stared at him in silent repulsion, as if this were an unhappy duty he took on only to please his mistress.

Minutes passed in silence, and Shannon grew increasingly frightened. The voices had ceased, though whether this meant capture or escape for his close friends, he had no idea.

Suddenly, he heard distant sounds, moving closer to the house. Raucous laughter and voices, and Anabella's genteel speech, as well.

"Your friends, boy", the Judge said suddenly, "They belong to her now."

Shannon just stared at him in horror, not knowing what to say.

The front door slammed open then, causing the young wrestler's already tense muscles to go rigid with alarm. Anabella led a large group of Alabaster's loyal mutants into the foyer. Shannon's eyes widened. Two of them were holding Matt and Jeff's arms in a tight grip. The brothers were both still clad in their outfits from the Battle of the Bands. Both were filthy with mud and sweat and swamp-muck. Matt and Jeff had obviously been through a fight, as they appeared exhausted and beaten in the grips of their captors.

Anabella moved in front of the Hardys, blocking their view of Shannon.

"Welcome home, boys", she said softly. The shadows cast from the fireplace danced on her sunken cheeks and the white teeth of her wolfish grin, giving her a sinister appearance.

"Let us go, dammit!", raged Jeff, struggling ferociously in his captor's grip, "Fucking psychotic freaks!"

He kicked back, trying to gain some leverage against the huge man holding his arms behind his back, but three more minions rushed in to help. He was immediately subdued.

Anabella walked over to him, shaking her head in a scolding manner.

"Jeffrey", she said, placing a hand on his cheek, "This will be so much easier if you cooperate."

The younger Hardy glared at her, his features tight with fury. Suddenly, he drew back slightly, relaxing in the minions' grips. Before she could react, Jeff spit in his estranged aunt's face. All movement in the room ceased at once.

Her face immediately morphed into an ugly mask of rage. Without even bothering to wipe her nephew's spittle off of her cheek, she began to move towards him, her slender fingers drawn into claws.

"Aunt Anabella!"

She stopped, turning towards the voice that had stopped her from leaving a trail of bloody scratches down her nephew's face. Matt was watching her with wide, pleading eyes.

"Please don't", he said, his chest heaving with exertion, "He won't do it again."

She smiled warmly as she pulled out an embroidered handkerchief and began to wipe the spittle off of her face. "Matthew, you always were the level-headed one."

His brown eyes hard, he said, "Let Shannon go. This has nothing to do with him. This is family business."

She waved her hand dismissively. "Honestly, I'd forgotten he was even here. I don't need him anymore, now that my boys are home, where they should be."

The Judge grabbed the back of Shannon's shirt, and began to push him forcefully towards the door. Apparently, he was no longer welcome.

"Matt! Jeff! Let go of me, asshole!"

His protests were ignored. The last thing he saw before the door was slammed in his face was that old bitch Anabella grinning at Matt and Jeff in a disturbingly predatory fashion.

He banged on the door several times, then kicked it in frustration.

"God dammit!", he cursed.

Furious, Shannon began to make his way through the swamp.

"Just hang on, guys", he said to himself, "I'll be back with help, soon."

* * * * * * *

Matt felt a mongoloid rubbing up against his back, sniffing the skin of his neck. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to get away, but he couldn't move. Anabella's strange minions had too tight of a grip on him.

He was really worried about Jeff. He, their aunt, and a few guards had disappeared into a back room a while ago. Matt had heard scuffling, and yelling, then nothing. That must have been thirty minutes back.

The older Hardy glared at the Judge, who was calmly enjoying a glass of brandy in one of Anabella's lovely, antiquated dining room chairs.

"Where is my brother?", he asked, teeth gritted, "What is she doing to him?"

The Judge took a long, slow sip. "His appearance is unacceptable. That hair. Those clothes." His hand tightened on the glass, as if in anger. "She's making him presentable, as a Southern gentleman should be."

"If she, or you, or any of these _things_, hurt him, there will be hell to pay", Matt said softly, "We're not little kids that she can push around anymore."

The Judge gave no reply, except for a narrowing of the eyes, and another deep drink of the brandy.

Suddenly, the door from the room opened, and Anabella walked through, a wide smile on her red lips.

"Where is he?", cried Matt, trying desperately to pull out of the grips of the deformed townspeople.

Ignoring her nephew completely, she walked over to the Judge, happy smile firmly in place.

"He looks so wonderful", she said blissfully, "It's as if all of the filth and sin has been wiped away."

The Judge placed a heavy hand on her thin shoulder, and nodded.

Anabella turned towards Matthew then, and the smile disappeared from her face as quickly as the sun would move behind clouds. "You are next", she hissed.

Matthew only glared in reply.

"Bring my nephew in here!", she cried suddenly.

The older Hardy's eyes widened as Jeff was dragged through the door, struggling in the grips of several of Anabella's minions.

"Fuck off, asshole! Let go of me!", he cried, kicking and twisting his body to no avail.

Matt couldn't stop staring at the transformation his younger brother had undergone. It was as if Anabella had sucked all of the color and life out of him. The very first thing he noticed, more than anything else, was that a quick and dirty dye job had been done to cover the rainbow hues in Jeff's hair. It was now simple, dark brown. Secondly, and perhaps most disturbingly, Jeff had been clothed in the period garb of a well-off southern gentleman. He wore a gray vest over a white shirt, a pocket watch on a chain, and a pair of black trousers. His green eyes smoldered with fury.

"He fits Thaddeus' clothing well, Anabella", remarked the Judge.

"Who the fuck is Thaddeus?", spat Jeff, who was still trying to get free.

Anabella swept forward and slapped him across the face. "I will hear no more of your vile curses!", she cried, eyes blazing.

Jeff smirked, taunting her, trying to goad her into a fight. She slapped him again, cutting his lip with her sharp fingernail.

"You will mind me, boy", she hissed, grabbing hold of his chin with her claw-like fingers, "Or your brother will suffer the consequences. Do you understand?"

Jeff glared at her. He nodded once in acknowledgement, eyes dark with contempt.

Anabella allowed her nails to rake over the soft skin of his face as she let him go, causing him to wince in pain.

Turning away from her younger nephew, she faced Matthew, who had been carefully watching every nuance of the interaction.

A radiant smile split Anabella's lined face. "I know that you won't trouble me, Matthew. You were never a troublesome child."

Matt forced himself to stand perfectly still as she ran her hands through his disheveled hair. He purposely avoided Jeff's fierce gaze. Fighting back, at least at this particular moment, wouldn't help anything. They'd never be able to make it past her army of mongoloids.

No, for now, Matthew would play his aunt's twisted game. And he would ensure that Jeff did too.

Their lives undoubtedly depended on it.

* * * * * * *

**Shannon is in the swamp, all alone! Poor Shannon! And the Hardys are being dressed up like Gone With the Wind rejects! Poor Hardys! And Chris lost the Battle of the Bands! Poor Chris!**

**Onions salutes you all! REVIEW, BITCHES, REVIEW!!! ;)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Oh, foul Onions. For shame. How long hast sweet Alabaster rotted in thine hard drive, forgotten, untouched? Woe is Onions! Onions owns not thine characters contained herein, for they be owned by WWE. **

"Lunchtime, boys!" Anabella's genteel Southern voice rang through the decaying mansion, echoing off of peeling wallpaper and dust-covered portraits.

A moment later, she heard loud, dragging footsteps making their way towards the antiquated dining room. There were angry voices, and arguing. She smiled to herself. Those voices were music to her ears.

Matthew emerged in the doorway first, his garish outfit from the previous evening gone. It had been replaced with the simple, respectable suit of a Southern gentleman. He looked at his aunt with as much stoicism as he could muster, under the circumstances. She studied him, tilting her head and smiling in approval.

Uncomfortable, he shifted slightly beneath her scrutiny. One of the mongoloids, who had a large, butt-shaped growth where its eyes should be, tightened its grip on his arm, causing Matt to grimace in pain.

"You will sit here, Matthew", Anabella said, gesturing to one of the chairs, "Next to me."

The mongoloid pushed the older Hardy roughly towards his seat, ignoring the baleful glare it received in return.

As soon as Matt was seated, Jeff entered the room. His arms were held by two mutants, and he was trying everything he could think of to pull out of their grasps.

"Fuck you!", he spat, "Get the fuck off of me!"

Anabella's pleasant smile disappeared immediately the moment she saw her younger nephew's unseemly behavior. Matt's eyes widened in alarm. His younger brother would not escape unscathed, not this time.

She moved calmly towards the struggling Jeff, who was growing increasingly distressed as he was realizing that he'd be unable to pull out of the mongoloids' iron grips. Anabella stood before her nephew, watching his brutish manners with open disgust. His intense green gaze met with her own, defiant and utterly unafraid. Anger rose up in Anabella like a tide of choking acid as she saw this insolence, even after all the pains she had taken to shape him to her will. She grabbed Jeff's chin in a bruising grip, hissing, "Time and again, you have defied me, Jeffrey. I will have it no longer!"

She reached into the pocket of her apron then, fishing around for something. Her eyes never left Jeff's. Suddenly, her expression brightened, and a feral smile crossed her lined face. Jeff watched with apprehension as his aunt pulled out a syringe, brandishing it proudly. The younger Hardy's breath hitched in fear as he saw the clear liquid contained within.

"What is that?", he whispered, his eyes never leaving the syringe.

Anabella smiled gently. "Punishment, my dear. Now hold still."

"Please, Aunt Anabella, don't do this!", yelled Matt, struggling in the grips of two mongoloids.

Anabella glared at her older nephew. "Hush, Matthew." She turned back to Jeff and watched with cruel detachment as he struggled to no avail in the grips of his captors.

Suddenly, without warning, she stabbed the needle into the side of his neck, pushing the stopper down with grim concentration. When the syringe was empty, she pulled it smoothly out of the wound, putting it into her apron once again.

"Jeff!", cried Matt, who was still trying desperately to free himself and run to his brother.

"Jesus fucking Christ!", panted Jeff, "What in the hell did you just shoot me with?!"

An ugly scowl transformed her genteel features suddenly. Anabella reared back and slapped her younger nephew across the face, feeling no small amount of satisfaction as his head flew back with the force of the blow. "I have told you before, child. _Never_ curse in front of a lady."

The Enigma blinked, then shook his head, as if he were trying to clear his senses. "G- Go to helllll…", he slurred.

Anabella smiled, and patted his cheek affectionately. "My, my, that concoction of the Judge's _did_ work quickly."

Jeff shook his head in mute protest. He felt numb, and heavy, and slow, as if he were floating in a tank of cold water. From a distance, he could hear Matt's voice, yelling his name.

Cold, black water washed over him. He tried to curl in on himself, tried to protect himself.

A tidal wave of pain hit him, and unconsciousness crept slowly over him. He heard his aunt's voice before his mind completely shut down. What she said made his stomach turn with dread.

"Pick him up. Throw him in the box…"

Rough hands grabbed him, holding him so tightly that he was powerless to fight against them.

He was terrified of the box. And Anabella knew it.

It was going to be a long, long day, and a far longer night.

* * * * * * *

The Alabaster sun burned hot and hazy over the Route 67 Howard Johnson. The wrestlers were relaxing in the tiny town's most luxurious resort. Some were washing their tights, others were having their breakfast beers. It was a relatively peaceful morning.

Suddenly, the lobby's main entrance swung open violently, crashing against the wall and causing hairline fractures in the previously unmarred paint surface.

Shannon leaned against the doorframe, panting, his body covered with swamp- slime and mud. The one wrestler in the lobby at the time froze and stared wide-eyed at the spectacle.

"You", Shannon panted, pointedly ignoring the younger man's gawking, "Go… now… get everybody… meeting… GO!"

Evan Bourne had been on his way to the lobby bathroom to take a much-needed dump, as his bathroom had been stopped up by his roommate, Kane. He _really _needed to go. But Shannon was looking like he'd just crawled out of an outhouse, and the younger man really wanted to know why. Evan sighed inwardly. Knowing that constipation was on its way, he gritted his teeth, clenched his buttcheeks tight, and obediently went running towards the elevators to gather everyone.

As he went, Shannon slid down the wall, leaving a streak of dirt and animal poop behind him. He closed his eyes, trying to think of any plan that could possibly work against that old bitch and her army of deformed goons. He was just too tired right now. The others would have to do the planning.

After a few minutes, he pulled himself up with a groan, and began to drag his sore and exhausted muscles towards the large conference room. It smelled like meatloaf and stale socks today, he realized, wrinkling his nose distastefully.

Evan returned moments later with a horde of wrestlers at his back. All of them were chatting excitedly, wondering what was going on. The last time they'd had this much drama was when Batista had shot an overdose of steroids into his right arm and the muscle exploded out like a helium balloon popping.

Now, the wrestlers were hoping for something, anything, to alleviate their boredom. Speculation as to why Shannon Moore of all people could be calling an emergency meeting this early in the morning, even before people had had a chance to finish off their warm Budweisers, were running rampant, and everyone was hoping for something exciting to be going on.

As they approached the conference room doors, Dolph Ziggler put in his two cents. "I'll bet you this has something to do with aliens", Dolph Ziggler said somberly, "They're everywhere, you know. This one time, an alien stuck something right up my buttcrack."

Everyone within earshot rolled their eyes. They were used to Ziggler's alien rants, especially the parts about "frequent anal probes". It was sad, really. The guy just couldn't admit he was a butt pirate.

"Don't be a retard, Ziggler", huffed Triple H, "We've all wrestled you. Everyone knows your buttcrack stinks to high heaven! No one would ever go near that thing willingly."

Before the platinum blonde could reply, Shannon stuck his head out of the open doorway. "Hurry up, guys!" His voice held a tinge of breathless desperation.

The Undertaker growled. "Little fucker had best not try to order me around. I'll rip his balls off and feed them to him."

His brother, Kane, shot him a sidelong glance. "You need anger management."

The Deadman let out a raucous fart. "And you need the hair club for men. But do I say anything? Nope."

Kane rolled his eyes, used to his brother's insane tantrums. If he didn't get a bottle of Jack Daniels in the morning, he was inconsolable for the rest of the day. Not to mention gassy. The Big Red Machine sighed heavily. Holding his breath as he walked next to the fart factory that his brother had become, he waited for the Deadman's air biscuits to dissipate.

The wrestlers followed Shannon into the empty space. Once everyone had entered, the door was shut, and everybody shifted uncomfortably, wishing they had alcohol. The wrestlers all looked at Shannon impatiently, waiting for the meeting to begin. It was only now that they began to take note of the younger man's bedraggled appearance. Shannon was cut, and filthy, and barely able to stand after the night that he had endured in Anabella's hellish swamp.

"Jesus Christ, Moore, what the hell happened to you?", asked Orton.

"It doesn't matter. I'm fine", Shannon replied stoically, "It's the Hardys we have to worry about."

"The Hardys?", inquired Carlito, "But we just saw them at the Battle of the Bands last night. They were fine."

"It's a long story", Shannon said tiredly, "Just trust me when I say that their psychotic aunt has them, and-"

"Wait, I don't understand", interrupted Regal, crossing his arms indignantly, "How can they be in trouble if they're with their aunt? Even if she does have mental incapacities, Matt and Jeff are perfectly capable of fighting off one elderly lady, yes?"

Shannon was growing frustrated now. "That lady, Anabella, is a fucking psychopath! She has a whole slew of those deformed mountain people working for her. I'm telling you, the Hardys are in huge trouble! She's holding Matt and Jeff as her prisoners in her god damn swamp mansion. We have to help them escape!"

Everyone started talking at once. Some were saying that the situation couldn't possibly be as bad as Shannon imagined it to be. Some were saying they should call the police. Some, including Legacy, Orton, and Edge, were inching their way towards the door, trying to slip out without being noticed so they wouldn't have to get involved in this mess. Others, like Cena and DX, were already talking battle plans.

Shannon listened to the cacophony, and began to think that coming here had been a really bad idea. Wrestlers were divisive by nature. They'd never be able to work together against the mongoloids. Perhaps he should've searched out the police after all…

Suddenly, one voice rang out over the crowd, bringing the indecipherable din to an abrupt halt.

"I know firsthand how fucked up that bitch is." Jericho's deep tenor stopped the frenzied conversations. Silence dropped upon the room like a wet blanket as everyone's eyes shifted to the Canadian superstar.

"What're you talking about, Jericho?", asked the Miz incredulously.

Y2J, who stood apart from the group in the shadows of the far corner said, "She ordered her boyfriend to beat the crap out of me. And she stood there and watched him do it with a smile on her face, like she was enjoying it, or something. I guarantee you, there's something very, very wrong with her. If Matt and Jeff are with her now, they're fucking screwed."

The wrestlers stared at the tender bruises upon Jericho's face, and realized that he was telling the truth. They realized that the situation was, perhaps, more serious than they'd originally thought.

"Anabella will never expect us to launch an organized attack on her home", Shannon put in, bringing everyone's attention back to him, "So I say that they're not screwed until we've taken a shot at getting them back. I mean, it's a bunch of professional athletes against some mangy, deformed mountain people. What could go wrong?"

No one wanted to think about what could go wrong. It was, however, becoming increasingly clear that they had to act, and quickly.

"You are all fucking retarded!", cried Orton suddenly. When the others looked, they saw him standing near the open door with Legacy, Edge, and a group of about twenty or so wrestlers.

"We're not gonna risk ourselves in some kamikaze attack plan, going against people who have no qualms about taking shits in their front yards! And the lot of you", he jabbed a finger at those in the room, "are out of your minds for going along with this!"

Cena stepped forward, rage painting his chiseled features. "Sometimes you gotta do things you don't like, Orton. Hell, I pick bunions off of Vince's feet three times a week _and_ dye his chest hair with Just For Men in order to keep my spot in the company. You think I like that? But sometimes, you gotta pay a price, and I've paid mine in spades!"

Everyone stared at Cena.

Orton's eyes burned with irritation. "And just what the fuck is your point?"

Cena looked cowed. "Just sayin' that you should help out, man. That's all."

The leader of Legacy turned on his heel, walking towards the door. "Well we're not going to. Good luck finding them, I guess." With that, he was gone, taking twenty superstars out the door with him.

"Fucker", said Shannon angrily.

"Don't worry, Shannon", Cena assured him, "We'll get Matt and Jeff back. All we need is a plan."

Jericho stepped forward. "Perhaps I could be of some assistance with that."

Shannon looked suspiciously at Y2J, not trusting him at all. The Canadian superstar stood silently, offering nothing to ease the younger man's fears.

"What did you have in mind?", Shannon finally said, his words slow and reticent.

Chris just smiled. He would enjoy this.

That Anabella bitch wouldn't know what fucking hit her, when all was said and done.

* * * * * * *

Matt sat in the midst of the once-elegant dining room, staring dully at a rapidly cooling cup of Earl Grey tea that had been placed in front of him. Anabella sat across from him, silent for the moment, seemingly contemplative. The older Hardy brother wasn't fooled by her demeanor. She was like a poisonous snake, deadly though it may appear docile for the moment. The older Hardy brother had learned the hard way to never let his guard down around her. Matt shuddered suddenly as his mongoloid guards shifted slightly behind him. The deformed creatures had retreated to the shadows in an effort to make themselves less conspicuous.

Anabella watched every move he made, her sharp, black eyes taking in his drooping shoulders and glazed expression. She was sipping tea in her ladylike, straight-backed manner, as if nothing was amiss. A small smile quirked her lips as she looked her older nephew over. Such a good boy.

Matt's stomach clenched suddenly as his thoughts turned once again to his younger brother. It had been hours since they'd taken Jeff away, and he'd probably woken by now, in the confines of that _thing_, cold, and alone, and frightened.

God, he was furious. He wanted to strike out, hit his aunt's smug face, destroy this house and all of its terrible memories. But he couldn't. If he made any move against Anabella, the Judge would be waiting, out there, to punish Jeff for it. He couldn't have that. He had to protect his younger brother, to the best of his ability.

"Matthew, drink your tea before it gets cold", Anabella said, her sharp gaze never straying from his downturned face.

"I'm not thirsty", he said, his voice quiet and thick with emotion.

"Nevertheless", she urged, "It is good, strong tea. There is nothing better for one's constitution."

Matt ignored her urging, instead bringing his gaze up to meet his aunt's. His eyes were red, and heavy with exhaustion.

"Please, Aunt Anabella", he said, trying his damned best to keep his tone respectful, "Let Jeff out of the box. He… he didn't mean it. He just doesn't like being told what to do. A few hours in there should be more than enough-"

"After what he said to me!", she hissed, all traces of the polite Southern lady gone, "Those vile curses, wrapped in degradation and filth!" Anabella took a breath. She smiled gently at her nephew and shook her head. "No, Matthew, I'm afraid he has not suffered nearly enough for the sin to be washed away."

Matthew stood, his eyes growing hard. "I won't let you do this to him."

Anabella remained seated, looking at her nephew with warm affection. "My dear child, you have no choice."

The blow came hard, swift, and without warning, a crack to the back of his skull that brought the older Hardy to his knees. Before he could even cry out in pain or twist out of the way, another followed, causing him to collapse like a rag doll to the hardwood floor. His wings, tucked beneath his Confederate clothing, began to twitch spasmodically, instinctually trying to burst forth in a last-ditch effort to fight back. The strikes had been well-placed, however, and Matt found that he couldn't have moved if he'd tried.

Blackness began to seep into the edges of his vision, though before he passed out, he saw the Judge make his way around the table, holding a candlestick covered with blood. _My _blood, he realized dimly.

When the broad man reached his aunt, Matt saw him drop the heavy object to the ground, throwing it at her feet like some kind of sacrificial offering. She rose from her seat slowly, her eyes locked to the Judge's, never wavering.

The last thing Matt saw before he passed out was his aunt pulling the tall man into a heated, passionate kiss, their black-clad bodies so close together that they looked like one person.

* * * * * * *

Jeff opened his eyes slowly, groaning in pain at the throbbing headache behind his eyes. He looked around at his surroundings. Black, black, and more black. He could see nothing, hear nothing. His breath hitched in his throat.

"Oh my god", he whispered, on the edge of tears, "Oh shit." He was in the steel coffin that his sick, fucked-up aunt delighted in using as a torture chamber whenever he or Matt stepped out of line. He wondered how long she'd keep him in here. Once, she'd thrown Matt in with a canteen of water and a crust of stale bread, keeping him prisoner in this god-awful thing for a full god damn week. Jeff had wanted to kill her.

He shifted uncomfortably, feeling something dull and hard digging in between his shoulder blades. No matter how he turned, he couldn't get comfortable.

The younger Hardy closed his eyes, his breath hitching in his throat. He could practically smell the old sweat, and fear, and hopelessness contained within the box's steel walls.

And now, he was trapped here until that sick bitch saw fit to release him.

Just fucking great.

* * * * * * *

The cafeteria at the Howard Johnson had just served dinner. Fishsticks again.

The superstars who were putting together a rescue plan were forced to endure this sickly-sweet perfume as they sat in the meeting room and talked things over. Despite the many varied personalities in the room, there was minimal arguing, and things were going along very smoothly. As Shannon listened to the brainstorming session, he breathed a sigh of relief. This was as painless as it would ever get.

Jericho stood next to Cena and Shannon at the front of the room. These three were acting as the impromptu leaders of "Operation: Kill Old Whore and Get Hardys Back" (O.K.O.W.G.H.B. for short). Y2J had been listening to the half-cocked ideas thrown out by everyone for the past 45 minutes, and finally he'd had enough. He stepped forward.

"…so then, Miz, who'll be dressed as a hooker, goes in and knocks on the door", Morrison explained his brilliant idea, "And he's hiding a gun in his fishnet stocking. And then, when they take him inside, BLAM! Shot in the head, dead, bye-bye, Hardys are free."

"Okay, dumbass", retorted Miz, "But there are a few problems with that plan. Number one, I'm not dressing up as a hooker. Number two, what the fuck would an old lady want with a hooker anyway? Number three, even if I could get in and shoot her, there's an army of freaks inside the house too. I'd be killed right after she went down."

"Sacrificing yourself for a cause is noble, Miz", sniffed Morrison.

"Alright, everybody shut up. Just shut up, I can't take it anymore", interrupted Jericho, rubbing at his temples.

"And I suppose you have a better plan?", Morrison asked, eyebrow raised incredulously.

"Hell yes, I do!", replied Jericho, "I've been to that place. I've seen what it looks like, inside and out. I'm basing my plan around my knowledge of the battle ground."

At this, everyone perked up. It sounded like Jericho might just know what he was talking about.

"Just get on with it, Jericho", growled Triple H, "I haven't taken my weiner for a spin all day, and it's starting to get antsy." He scratched his balls. Stephanie cooed softly in his ear, as if to comfort him.

Ignoring the Cerebal Assassin, Jericho began to explain. "It's going to be a three-pronged attack." The blonde superstar stepped up to the Dry-Erase board where he'd drawn a very crude map of Anabella's estate grounds. "Our first team, led by Cena, is going to come out of the swamp, from this direction." He drew an arrow. "Team 2, led by me, will wait a few minutes, until the mongoloids grow over-confident and think they've defeated us. Then, in we'll come from this way." He drew another arrow. "If that doesn't wipe out all of the freaks, we'll have a third team, led by Shannon, waiting in the wings to swoop in and finish them off, coming from this way." The last arrow was drawn. "Simple and effective", he said, his tone smug.

"I've gotta admit, Jericho", said John Morrison, "That seems to be a pretty good plan. Much better than dressing Miz up like a hooker."

Jericho nodded. "You're god damn right it's a good plan", he replied, "And you tools had better get ready to execute it to perfection. Because if you don't, that old bag and her man-bitch will get a hold of you. And trust me. That would be a bad, bad thing."

**Onions enjoys cheese, long walks on the beach, and reviews. **


	10. Chapter 10: The Beginning of the End

Matt's first conscious thought was of the terrible pounding in his skull. The second was of heat, all-consuming, uncomfortable, surrounding him. The third was the realization that he couldn't move.

His eyes slid open, slowly, painfully. There was only darkness.

He pushed out with his feet, his elbows, his back, attempting to feel the edges of his unsettlingly small prison. He was surprised to feel some give at the elbow. Pushing harder, he tumbled out onto cold concrete.

Wide-eyed, he gazed around, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. He took a deep breath, attempting to steady himself. His brow furrowed in confusion. This place smelled of must and mold and age, exactly like his father's basement back in Cameron. He squinted through the gloom, trying to figure out exactly where he was. The large hulking shape of whatever had held him prisoner loomed before him, a sinister shadow in the darkness.

Matt stared at his former prison. And then, all of a sudden, it all seemed to fall into place.

"A dryer", he said incredulously, "Those fucking bobos stuffed me into a _dryer_!"

Filled with a justified rage, Matt Hardy raised his fist to the heavens and cried, "V1-nuh!"

The arm of his shirt split open as he did so, dislodging a dryer sheet that had rested in the crook of his armpit. Matt suddenly realized that all of his clothes were feeling far too tight. He supposed it made sense. The mongoloids _had _apparently thrown him into a dryer and turned it on.

Sighing heavily, he moved off to find a way out, walking gingerly so as to avoid further damaging his too-tight garments. He had to find Jeff. They had to get the fuck out of here.

[xxxxxx]

As the Judge put his pants back on, he muttered, "My dear Anabella, I fear that the Box may no longer be sufficient to hold the man that was once a boy." He ran his bony hand through his greasy white hair and stared at his paramour intensely. "Perhaps we should consider employing… other methods."

Anabella shot him a look that could cut through a buffalo's asshole. "Judge, darling, we shall not employ The Dark Star unless it becomes absolutely necessary." She lowered her voice to a threatening hiss. "Do not speak to me of it again."

The Judge simply smiled, and subtly moved his nose to the right so he could sniff the perfume of his own deodorant. "Mmmm", he thought to himself, "Powder fresh!"

"Jeffrey will be just fine in the Box", Anabella scowled, "Now come over here and fasten my necklace."

The Judge did as he was told, being careful not to disturb the nest of fuzzy brown moles on Anabella's neck.

[xxxxxx]

John Cena and his team crouched in the bushes near Anabella's dilapidated mansion. They were watching with both awe and disgust as one of the mongoloidal townsfolk stood on the side of the house, brushing his two remaining teeth with the water from the garden hose.

Cena tore his eyes away from the spectacle, a wave of nausea twisting his guts. Matt and Jeff were in there, possibly being tortured by these freaks. They needed rescue, and they needed rescue _fast_.

He turned his gaze to Beth Phoenix, his second in command. He flipped her the middle finger, which was the signal to get into position. Nodding solemnly, she gestured for the others to follow her lead.

Cena stalked forward, his gaze intent on the mutant standing before him. The tooth-brushing freak was the only mongoloid in sight. If they could take him out, there was a chance-

Suddenly, the highly-strung wrestler felt a tug on his sleeve. He didn't think; he reacted. With a great war cry, he spun, grabbed onto the assailant's arm, and threw them onto the ground with all of his might.

The pained, writhing form of Evan Bourne met his confused gaze.

"I- I just wanted to ask you if I could take a bathroom break", he said, his tone accusatory.

"We've got bigger problems than his explosive diarrhea", said Beth suddenly, her gaze wide-eyed as she pointed towards the house. The small group of guerilla-wrestler-assassins followed her stare, muttering darkly to themselves when they saw what she was gaping at.

There was a large group of at least 25 mongoloids moving steadily towards their position, weapons in hand. The creatures looked pissed off. They looked _royally_ pissed off.

Cena turned towards the wrestlers he had with him. "_What a sorry human crap-pile_", he thought to himself, looking over the meatheads, retards, and whores that constituted his battalion. There was no way they'd be able to stand up to that force of deformed shitheads. No way his people would even be able to get in a bitch-slap or a punch to the balls. The mongoloids outnumbered them, and had better weapons. No, there was no way in hell.

Now that the fight was being brought to _them_, Cena was realizing that this had, perhaps, been a very, very bad idea.

[xxxxxx]

Matt slinked and skulked through the dark hallways of Annabella's mansion, desperately trying to navigate the twists and turns of the rundown domicile. His brother was around here somewhere, and the older Hardy would not damn well leave this hell hole without him.

Luckily, Matt harbored a secret ability, one that had been kept in the deep shadows of the Hardy family all the way back to Great, Great, Great, Great Uncle Jebediah Q. Hardy, the Lone Wolf of the West. Matt could sniff out other members of his lineage, much like a bloodhound. This would make finding Jeff an easy task, even in this shit-covered dump of a house.

Matt stuck his rather prominent, upturned nose out sharply and got to sniffin'. He almost immediately picked up on the scent of his younger brother, mainly because Jeff had a bad case of armpit stink. The onion-tinged waft led him to an immense black door covered in metal filigree in the shape of roses and pigs.

"Interesting combination…roses and pigs," Matt thought, but quickly dismissed it and returned to focusing on Jeff.

"Jeff!" he hissed, as quietly as possible, hoping not to alert Anabella, The Judge or the damn mongoloids roaming the grounds.

"Mmmmmph! Mmmmmph!" someone muttered from inside the heavy metal door. "MMMMMMPH!"

"Hold on, little dude!" whispered Matt, frantically trying to open the lock. He threw his immense body weight onto the door and it broke into a thousand pieces. He peered into the darkness and saw a large black box standing up against the wall. It had the letters "BIG BLACK BOX" emblazoned on the front in what looked like white crayon. The writing reminded Matt of his handwriting homework from kindergarten.

In one fell swoop, the portly Hardy flew through the air towards the box, leg extended in front of him, and bitch-kicked the box into pieces.

When the dust cleared, the box had been obliterated and in its place stood the proud and mighty Jeff Hardy, clad in the old-time clothing his asshole aunt had dressed him in.

"Thanks Matt!" he yelled.

"You're welcome, little dude!" Matt exclaimed. "Now let's get the FUCK out of here!"

"Yeah!" said Jeff. And off they went, to find freedom, sunlight and beer.

[xxxxxx]


End file.
